UC-NRLF 


B    3    315 


7V 


JAMES    RYDER    RANDALL 

(AT  TWENTY-TWO) 
WHEN  MARYLAND,  MY  MARYLAND,  WAS  WRITTEN 


MARYLAND,  MY  MARYLAND 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 


James   Ryder  Randall 


JOHN  MURPHY  COMPANY 
{htbltahrra 

BALTIMORE.  MD.          NEW  YORK 


JOHN  MURPHY  COMPANY 


TO   THE   MEMORY 

OF 
MY   MOTHER 


M61191 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction 11 

Maryland,  My  Maryland 17 

Pelham 20 

There's  Life  in  the  Old  Land  Yet    .        .        .        .        .22 

John  W.  Morton 24 

On  the  Rampart •       .      28 

Memorial  Day        .        . 31 

The  Battle  Cry  of  The  South    .        .        .  .        .32 

The  Lone  Sentry    • 36 

At  Fort  Pillow   .  38 

Our  Confederate  Dead 42 

Placide  Bossier  .        .      .  .        .        ...        .        .44 

Ashes 45 

The  Unconquered  Banner     ......          46 

At  Arlington -.        .49 

The  Oriel  Window 55 

Anima        ......        ..-.59 

Eidolon   .        .        .        •        .        .        ."       .        .        .          61 
The  Damsel  of  Mobile       .        .        .  *     .        .        .        .64 

The  Dying  Girl       .        .        ...        .        .        .          66 

Jamais .68 

The  Cameo  Bracelet  70 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

PAGE 
The  Cobra  Capello     .        .        .        .       . .        .        .        .      72 

Why  The  Robin's  Breast  is  Red  .        .        ...          75 

Adieu  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .76 

Silver  Spring  .........         78 

To  the  Queen  of  the  Wax  Dolls        .        .        .        .        .81 

Stone  Apples 83 

Althee         .        .        .        .        .        .        ...        .88 

Isis 91 

Far  Out  At  Sea       . 95 

Flourine 97 

Alexandrine       .  98 

Speaking  Eyes 101 

The  Grand  Duke 103 

My  Bonny  Kate     .        .        .        .        ,        .        .        .        105 

Elsie  Gay    .        .•      . 108 

The  Willow     .........        109 

Architecture 112 

Marathon 114 

Ode  to  Professor  Dimitry         .        .        .        .        .        .116 

Ha!  Ha!         ....        .        .        .        .        .        .          119 

Sarcastic .        .        .        .      . .        .        .        .        ..       .;      122 

Madame  La  Grippe  .        .        .  ,        .        .        .    123 

Silhouette        ...        .   ,     .        .        .        .        .        127 

Magdalen .        .     131 

Keats       .        .        ,        ,        ...-...,      132 
Palinodia    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .     134 

Malison   .  136 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Clay 138 

The  Unbought  Seminole 142 

After  A  Little  While 149 

The  Place  of  Rest  .  - 151 

Refuge  of  Sinners 153 

Mother  and  Son                      , 155 

The  Only  Boy 158 

Labor  and  Prayer 160 

In    Memoriam  .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .162 

Cuthbert  In  Heaven 164 

Sunday   Revery 167 

La  Fete  Des  Morts 171 

Night  and  Day 173 

Lost  and  Saved 174 

Resurgam 179 


INTRODUCTION 

These  poems  have  been  collected  and  are  published 
at  the  request  of  the  many  friends  of  James  Ryder 
Randall,  who  died  on  the  15th  day  of  January,  1908, 
in  Augusta,  Ga. 

Mr.  Randall  was  born  in  Maryland,  and,  although 
circumstances  compelled  him  to  live  for  many  years 
far  away  from  his  native  State,  he  never  lost  his 
intense  love  for  the  place  of  his  birth,  and  it  was  the 
hope  of  his  life,  in  later  years,  to  close  his  career  in 
dear  old  Maryland. 

When  he  was  last  in  Baltimore,  he  was  persuaded 
to  surrender  to  friends  the  stray  poems,  which  he 
had  written,  at  various  times,  that  they  might  be 
published  in  book  form. 

His  great  poem,  which  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 
declared  to  be  the  greatest  war  song  of  any  nation, 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

"Maryland,  My  Maryland,"  constitutes  the  main 
feature  of  this  publication.  The  circumstances  under 
which  it  was  penned  are  thus  described  by  himself: 

"In  April,  1861,  I  read  in  the  New  Orleans  Delta 
news  of  the  attack  on  the  Massachusetts  troops  as 
they  passed  through  Baltimore. 

"This  account  greatly  excited  me.  I  had  long  been 
absent  from  my  native  city,  and  the  startling  event 
there  influenced  my  mind.  That  night  I  could  not 
dismiss  from  my  mind  what  I  had  read  in  the  paper. 
About  midnight  I  arose,  lit  a  candle  and  went  to  my 
desk.  Some  powerful  influence  seemed  to  possess 
me,  and  almost  involuntarily  I  proceeded  to  write 
the  song  of  'My  Maryland/ 

"I  remember  that  this  idea  seemed  to  take  shape 
as  music  in  my  brain — some  wild  air  that  I  can  not 
now  recall.  The  whole  poem  was  dashed  off  rapidly 
when  once  begun.  It  was  not  composed  in  cold 
blood,  but  under  what  may  be  called  a  conflagration 
of  the  senses,  if  not  an  inspiration  of  the  intellect. 
No  one  was  more  surprised  than  I  was  at  the  wide 
spread  and  instantaneous  popularity  I  had  been  so 
strangely  stimulated  to  write." 


INTRODUCTION 

Mr.  Randall  was,  at  the  time,  a  Professor  of 
English  Literature  and  Classics  in  Poydras  College 
at  Pointe  Coupee,  Louisiana.  While  he  was,  thus, 
engaged,  poetry  was  with  him  a  passion  and  he  had 
often,  in  the  hours  of  leisure  indulged  in  the  ecstacy 
of  writing  exquisite  poetry. 

Published  in  the  last  days  of  April,  1861,  his  war 
song  fired  the  Southern  heart. 

It  displays  the  warmth  of  youth  with  the  valor 
of  the  soldier,  and  pleads  with  his  mother  State 
to  vindicate  her  peerless  chivalry.  After  the  war,  his 
deep  religious  devotion  turned  his  heart  in  kindness 
to  those,  who  had  been  on  the  other  side  in  the 
fratricidal  strife,  and  he  wrote  the  beautiful  poem 
"At  Arlington."  A  devoted  friend  of  Colonel  Ran 
dall  thus  described  the  circumstances  under  which 
that  poem  was  written.  In  the  hearts  of  some  of  his 
triumphant  foes  the  gall  of  bitterness  still  lingered, 
and  "on  one  Decoration  Day,"  so  the  story  goes,  "the 
graves  of  Federal  soldiers  at  Arlington  Cemetery 
were  heaped  with  flowers,  and  some  pious  women 
strewed  a  few  garlands  on  the  nearby  graves  of  some 
Confederate  dead.  Whereupon,  some  Northern  men, 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

who  saw  the  loving  act,  trampled  under  foot  the  gar 
lands  placed  on  the  "Rebel  Sod." 

But  when  the  sun  rose  next  morning  the  flowers 
were  decking  the  Confederate  graves  and  this  was 
how  it  happened: 

Jehovah  judged,  abashing  man: 

For  in  the  vigils  of  the  night, 
His  mighty  storm-avengers  ran 

Together  in  one  choral  clan, 
Rebuking  wrong,  rewarding  right ; 

Plucking  the  wreaths  from  those  who  won, 
The  tempest,  heaped  them  dewy  bright 

On  Rebel  graves  at  Arlington. 

Other  poems  of  rare  beauty  adorn  this  little  book ; 
but  the  grandest  of  all  in  spirituality  of  thought,  in 
sublime  religious  faith  and  in  beseeching  supplica 
tion  is  that  of  "Resurgam :" 

Banished  from  thee !  where  shall  I  find 

For  my  poor  soul 
A  safe  retreat  from  storms  that  blind 

Or  seas  that  roll? 
Come  to  me,  Christ,  ere  I  forlorn, 

Sink  'neath  the  wave, 
And  on  this  blessed  Easter  morn 

A  lost  one,  save! 


INTRODUCTION 

This  collection  of  poems  is,  now,  sent  forth  in  the 
hope  of  the  author's  friends,  that  it  may  receive  a 
large  share  of  favor  from  the  public  for  the  benefit  of 
the  family  of  the  deceased  author  and  poet,  JAMBS 
RYDER  RANDALL. 

Baltimore,  February  7,  1908. 


Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  once  said  of  Maryland,  My 
Maryland:  "My  only  regret  is  that  I  could  not  do 
for  Massachusetts  what  Randall  did  for  Maryland" 


MARYLAND,  MY  MARYLAND 


The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  touch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle  queen  of  yore, 

Maryland!  My  Maryland! 


Hark  to  a  wand'ring  son's  appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My  mother  State !  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland!  My    Maryland! 

[17] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland! 
.   .  .  ..  .-  Thy  beajuifcg  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ! 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, — 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland!  My  Maryland! 


Come !  'tis  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland  I 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland!  My  Maryland! 

Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come !  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 
That  stalks  with  liberty  along, 
And  gives  a  new  Key  to  thy  song, 

Maryland!  My  Maryland! 

[18] 


MARYLAND,  MY  MARYLAND 

Dear  Mother !  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain— 
"Sic  semper!"  'tis  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  again, 

Maryland!  My  Maryland! 


I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
But  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 

Rut  lo !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek- 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland!  My  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  blade,  the  shot,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland!  My  Maryland! 

[19] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb — 
Huzza !  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum ! 
She  breathes!  she  burns!  she'll  come!  she'll 
come! 

Maryland!  My  Maryland! 


PELHAM 

Just  as  the  Spring  came  laughing  through  the  strife, 

With  all  its  gorgeous  cheer; 
In  the  bright  April  of  historic  life, 

Fell  the  great  cannoneer. 

A  wondrous  lulling  of  a  hero's  breath, 

His  bleeding  country  weeps; 
Hushed  in  the  alabaster  arms  of  Death, 

Our  young  Marcellus  sleeps. 

Nobler  and  grander  than  the  Child  of  Rome, 

Curbing  his  chariot  steeds; 
The  knightly  scion  of  a  Southern  home, 

Dazzled  the  land  with  deeds. 

[20] 


PELHAM 

Gentlest  and  bravest  in  the  battle's  brunt, 

The  Champion  of  the  Truth ; 
He  won  his  banner  in  the  very  front 

Of  our  immortal  youth. 

A  clang  of  sabres  'mid  Virginian  snow, 

The  fiery  pang  of  shells — 
And  there's  a  wail  of  immemorial  woe 

In  Alabama  dells. 

The  pennon  droops  that  led  the  sacred  band 

Along  the  crimson  field; 
The  meteor  blade  sinks  from  the  nerveless  hand 

Over  the  spotless  shield. 

We  gazed  and  gazed  upon  that  beauteous  face, 

While  'round  the  lips  and  eyes, 
Couched  in  their  marble  slumber,  flashed  the  grace 

Of  a  divine  surprise. 

O  Mother  of  a  blessed  soul  on  high ! 

Thy  tears  may  soon  be  shed — 
Think  of  thy  boy  with  princes  of  the  sky, 

Among  the  Southern  Dead. 

How  must  he  smile  on  this  dull  world  beneath, 

Favored  with  swift  renown ; 
He  with  the  martyr's  amaranthine  wreath 

Twining  the  victor's  crown ! 

[21] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


THERE'S  LIFE  IN  THE  OLD  LAND  YET* 

By  blue  Patapsco's  billowy  dash 

The  Tyrant's  war  shout  comes, 
Along  with  the  cymbal's  fitful  clash 

And  the  growl  of  his  sullen  drums ; 
We  hear  it — we  heed  it,  with  vengeful  thrills, 

And  we  shall  not  forgive  or  forget — 
There's  faith  in  the  streams,  there's  hope  in  the  hills, 

There's  Life  in  the  Old  Land  yet ! 

Minions !  we  sleep,  but  we  are  not  dead, 

We     are     crushed — we     are     scourged — we     are 

scarred— 
We  crouch — 'tis  to  welcome  the  triumph-tread 

Of  the  peerless  Beauregard. 
Then  woe  to  your  vile,  polluting  horde 

When  the  Southern  braves  are  met — 
There's  faith  in  the  victor's  stainless  sword — 

There's  Life  in  the  Old  Land  yet ! 

*Not  to  be  confused  with  the  song  by  A.  F.  Gibson,  and 
dedicated  to  Severn  Teackle  Wallis.  This  poem  by  Mr.  Ran 
dall  was  set  to  music  under  the  title,  "We  Sleep,  but  We  are 
Not  Dead." 

[22] 


THERE'S  LIFE  IN  THE  OLD  LAND  YET 

Bigots !  ye  quell  not  the  valiant  mind 

With  the  clank  of  an  iron  chain ; 
The  Spirit  of  Freedom  sings  in  the  wind 

O'er  Herryman,  Thomas,  and  Kane! 
And  we — though  we  smite  not — are  not  thralls, 

We  are  piling  a  gory  debt; 
While  down  by  HcHenry's  dungeon  walls 

There's  Life  in  the  Old  Land  yet ! 

Our  women  have  hung  their  harps  away, 

And  they  scowl  on  your  brutal  bands, 
While  the  nimble  poniard  dares  the  day 

In  their  dear,  defiant  hands ! 
They  will  strip  their  tresses  to  string  our  bows 

Ere  the  Northern  sun  is  set — 
There's  faith  in  their  unrelenting  woes, 

There's  Life  in  the  Old  Land  yet ! 

There's  life,  though  it  throbbeth  in  silent  veins, 

'Tis  vocal  without  noise — 
It  gushed  o'er  Manassas'  solemn  plains 

From  the  Mood  of  the  Maryland  boys! 
That  blood  shall  cry  aloud,  and  rise 

With  an  everlasting  threat — 
By  the  death  of  the  brave,  by  the  God  in  the  skies, 

There's  Life  in  the  Old  Land  yet ! 

[23] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


JOHN  W.  MORTON 


Ringed  with  flame  and  sore  beset, 
Where  gunboat  and  rifle  fire  met ; 
Where  cannon  blazed  from  water  and  land 
Upon  the  Donelson  Southern  band, 
A  gallant  lad  of  nineteen  years, 
A  stranger  to  tremor  and  to  fears, 
Stood  by  a  battery  piece  and  shot 
The  first  shell  in  that  crater  hot. 


His  captain,  Porter,  smitten  down 
Where  all  the  volleyed  thunders  frown, 
Shouted,  when  borne  in  pain  away : 
"John,  don't  give  up  that  gun,  I  say ! 
"No !  not  while  a  man  is  left,"  replied 
The  lad,  in  the  flush  of  martial  pride ; 
And  he  kept  his  word  to  the  utter  end, 
While  a  man  could  live  in  that  river  bend. 

[24] 


JOHN  W.  MORTON 

"No  prison  for  me",  grim  Forrest  said, 
And  thousands  followed  where  he  led. 
But  other  thousands  remained  because 
They  bowed  to  Buckner's  word  and  laws. 
Whelmed  by  the  girdling  Northern  men, 
They  marched  to  the  captive's  dismal  den, 
And  the  lad  who  fired  the  first  gun  past 
Into  that  solitude  sad  and  vast. 


A  few  months  more,  and  the  daring  boy 
Breathed  the  air  that  the  free  enjoy. 
A  few  months  more,  and  he  gayly  went 
Where  dauntless  Forrest  pitched  his  tent. 
Saluting  the  hero,  he  quickly  gave 
To  the  South's  own  "bravest  of  the  brave" 
A  paper  that  said  he  was  to  be 
The  Wizard's  Chief  of  Artillery. 


A  derisive  smile  swept  over  the  face 
Of  the  stern  commander,  in  his  place. 
"WThat !"  he  growled,  "are  you  to  wield 
Command  of  my  guns  in  war's  fierce  field? 
Nonsense,  boy,  go  grow  a  beard !" 
And  this  was  what  the  stripling  heard. 

[25] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

But  presently  the  Wizard's  brow 
Grew  calm.    "I'll  try  you,  anyhow", 
He  said,  and  from  that  setting  sun 
Morton  and  Forrest  were  as  one. 

Nigh  four  tremendous,  bloody  years, 

Full  of  combat,  smiles  and  tears ; 

O'er  miles  of  land  in  battles  grand, 

Forrest  and  Morton  went  hand  in  hand. 

With  sword  and  pistol  the  Wizard  slew, 

While  Morton's  guns  mowed  men  in  blue. 

If  mortal  man  could  ever  have  freed 

The  South  from  the  foeman's  grasp  and  greed, 

That  man  was  Forrest,  but  we  see 

It  was  not  destined  so  to  be. 


ii. 


Long  years  have  gone,  the  grass  is  spread 

Above  the  bivouacs  of  the  dead. 

The  mighty  Wizard's  wand  is  still 

Like  his  heart;  but  from  every  Southern  hill, 

And  mount  and  stream  and  vale  bedight, 

With  sun  and  moon  and  star  alight, 

He  lives  in  glorious  deeds,  alway, 

Baffling  the  onset  of  decay. 

[26] 


JOHN  W.  MORTON 

The  lad  who  made  the  cannon  roar 

Survives  on  Life's  tumultuous  shore. 

His  locks  are  silvered,  but  his  brain 

Burns  with  heroic  throbs  amain. 

Gentle  and  kind,  but  valiant  yet, 

Forgiving,  he  cannot  forget 

The  Cause  he  fought  for,  with  his  mate 

Immortal,  whatsoe'er  its  fate; 

While  from  his  great  dark  eyes  there  gleams 

The  orient  of  remembered  dreams. 


And  now  the  old  bard's  final  rhyme 
Invokes  a  blessing  of  Easter  time, 
Upon  his  people  and  home  and  race, 
Like  manna-dew  of  heavenly  grace. 
With  higher  aims,  in  war's  surcease, 
Be  thou  allied  with  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
And  never,  henceforth,  forget  to  be 
"Soldier  of  Him  who  died  for  thee." 


[27] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


ON  THE  RAMPART 


On  Sumter's  rampart,  that  sweet  eve, 

I  heard  the  vesper  bugle  play 
In  chorus  with  the  ocean's  heave, 

All  in  the  golden  prime  of  May. 

On  either  side,  the  level  lands 

Swam  seaward  gray  and  serpentine; 

The  billows  burst  in  corsair  bands 
Against  their  shield  of  rock  and  pine. 

Aloof,  beyond  the  sullen  bar 

Crouching,  the  black  armada  rides — 
Afront  the  vulture  ships  of  war, 

Brooded  the  giant  Ironsides. 

The  fortress  guns  scowled  from  their  lair 
Along  the  sentry's  bristling  beat; 

While  on  the  sultry  wave,  aglare, 

Back  frowned  the  gaunt  and  baffled  fleet. 

[28] 


ON  THE  RAMPART 

Above  her,  in  the  glittering  day, 

The  white-winged  banner's  battle  stars. 

Crisping  the  bosom  of  the  bay, 

Bold  Moultrie  stands  with  all  her  scars; 


Amid  the  island,  in  repose, 

The  casual  breeze  at  last  grew  still; 
And,  through  the  haze  of  twilight,  rose 

The  tower  of  Secessionville. 


The  patient  moon  clomb  up  the  sky 
Forever  on  the  sun  god's  trail— 

The  saddest,  loveliest  thing  on  high, 
And  like  Oenone's  passion  pale. 


The  signal  fires  wink  through  the  dark 

Aleft  and  right,  as  rays  may  reach 
Around  the  red  and  feverish  arc 
Of  muffled  batteries  on  the  beach. 


A  hallowed  radiance,  calm  and  grave, 
Gilded  the  city's  storied  spires, 

Where  watch  the  beautiful  and  brave, 
Where  sleep  the  Carolinian  sires. 

[29] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  KYDER  RANDALL 

On  Sumter's  rampart,  that  sweet  night, 
Leaning  beside  the  shattered  wall, 

Thy  gentle  face,  so  fair  and  bright, 
Kept  me,  dear  love,  within  thy  thrall. 


I  turned  from  wrecks  of  storm  and  strife 
To  thee —  within  some  distant  home ; 

I  felt  that  all  my  fate  and  life 

Were  thine,  wherever  I  must  roam. 


A  glory  has  come  o'er  my  days 
In  dreaming  noblest  dreams  of  thee ; 

Beyond  the  rampart,  how  my  gaze 
Went  proudly  o'er  the  Southern  sea! 


And  dreams  like  mine  can  still  defy 
Even  the  tempest  of  distrust ; 

I  know  that  they  shall  never  die 
Because  they  are  not  of  the  dust. 


Dear  love !  though  dreams  may  wither  here, 
They  are  upgathered  from  the  sod, 

And  we  shall  see  them  reappear 
In  the  long  summer  time  of  God ! 

[30] 


MEMORIAL  DAY 


MEMORIAL  DAY 

Noblest  of  martyrs  in  a  glorious  fight ! 
Ye  died  to  save  the  cause  of  Truth  and  Right. 
And  though  your  banner  beams  no  more  on  high, 
Not  vainly  did  it  wave  or  did  ye  die ! 

No  blood  for  freedom  shed  is  spent  in  vain ; 

It  is  as  fertile  as  the  Summer  rain; 

And  the  last  tribute  of  heroic  breath 

Is  always  conqueror  over  Wrong  and  Death. 

The  grand  procession  of  avenging  years 
Has  turned  to  triumph  all  our  bitter  tears; 
And  the  cause  lost,  by  battle's  stern  behest, 
Is  won  by  Justice,  and  by  Heaven  blest. 

Dark  grew  the  night  above  our  sacred  slain, 
Who  sleeps  upon  the  mountain  and  the  plain ; 
But  darker  still  the  black  and  blinding  pall 
That  whelmed  the  living  in  its  lurid  thrall. 

But  taught  by  heroes,  who  had  yielded  life, 
We  fainted  not,  nor  faltered  in  the  strife ; 
With  weapons  bright,  from  peaceful  Reason  won, 
We  cleaved  the  clouds  and  gained  the  golden  sun. 

[31] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  EYDEK  RANDALL 

And  so  today  the  marble  shaft  may  soar 
In  memory  of  those  who  are  no  more; 
The  proudest  boast  of  centuries  shall  be, 
That  they  who  fell  with  JACKSON  rise  with  LEE  ! 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  OF  THE  SOUTH 

Arm  yourselves  and  be  valiant  men,  and  see  that  we  be  in 
readiness  against  the  morning,  that  ye  may  fight  with  these 
nations  that  are  assembled  against  us,  to  destroy  us  and  our 
sanctuary. 

For  it  is  better  for  us  to  die  in  battle  than  to  behold  the 
calamities  of  our  people  and  our  sanctuary. — Maccabees  1. 

Brothers !  the  thunder-cloud  is  black, 

And  the  wail  of  the  South  wings  forth ; 
Will  ye  cringe  to  the  hot  tornado's  rack, 

And  the  Vampires  of  the  North? 
Strike !  ye  can  win  a  martyr's  goal ; 

Strike !  with  a  ruthless  hand — 
Strike!  with  the  vengeance  of  the  soul 
For  your  bright,  beleaguered  land ! 
To  arms !  to  arms !  for  the  South  needs  help, 

And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — 
For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  Whelp,* 
And  the  God  of  the  Maccabees ! 

*The  surname  of  the  great  Maccabees. 
[32] 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  OF  THE  SOUTH 

Arise !  though  the  stars  have  a  rugged  glare, 

And  the  moon  has  a  wrath-blurred  crown — 
Brothers !  a  blessing  is  ambushed  there 

In  the  cliffs  of  the  Father's  frown ; 
Arise !  ye  are  worthy  the  wondrous  light 

Which  the  Sun  of  Justice  gives — 
In  the  caves  and  sepulchres  of  night 
Jehovah  the  Lord  King  lives ! 

To  arms !  to  arms !  for  the  South  needs  help, 

And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — 
For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  Whelp, 
And  the  God  of  the  Maccabees ! 


Think  of  the  dead  by  the  Tennessee 
In  their  frozen  shrouds  of  gore — 
Think  of  the  mothers  who  shall  see 

Those  darling  eyes  no  more ! 
But  better  are  they  in  a  hero-grave 

Than  the  serfs  of  time  and  breath, 
For  they  are  the  Children  of  the  Brave, 
And  the  Cherubim  of  Death! 
To  arms !  to  arms !  for  the  South  needs  help, 

And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — 
For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  Whelp, 
And  the  God  of  the  Maccabees ! 

[33] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Better  the  charnels  of  the  West 

And  a  hecatomb  of  lives, 
Than  the  foul  invader  as  a  guest, 

'Mid  your  sisters  and  your  wives — 
But  a  spirit  lurketh  in  every  maid, 

Though,  brothers,  ye  should  quail, 
To  sharpen  a  Judith's  lurid  blade, 
And  the  livid  spike  of  Jael ! 
To  arms !  to  arms !  for  the  South  needs  help, 

And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — 
For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  Whelp, 
And  the  God  of  the  Maccabees ! 


Brothers !  I  see  you  tramping  by, 

With  the  gladiator  gaze, 
And  your  shout  is  the  Macedonian  cry 

Of  old,  heroic  days ! 
March  on !  with  trumpet  and  with  drum, 

With  rifle,  pike,  and  dart, 
And  die — if  even  death  must  come — 
Upon  your  country's  heart. 
To  arms !  to  arms !  for  the  South  needs  help, 

And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — 
For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  Whelp, 
And  the  God  of  the  Maccabees ! 

[34] 


THE  BATTLE  CRY  OF  THE  SOUTH 

Brothers !  the  thunder  cloud  is  black, 

And  the  wail  of  the  South  wings  forth ; 
Will  ye  cringe  to  the  hot  tornado's  rack, 

And  the  Vampires  of  the  North  ? 
Strike !  ye  can  win  a  martyr's  goal, 

Strike!  with  a  ruthless  hand; 
Strike !  with  the  vengeance  of  the  soul 
For  your  bright,  beleaguered  land ! 
To  arms !  to  arms !  for  the  South  needs  help, 

And  a  craven  is  he  who  flees — 
For  ye  have  the  sword  of  the  Lion's  whelp, 
And  the  God  of  the  Maccabees ! 


[35] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


THE  LONE  SENTRY 

Previous  to  the  first  battle  of  Manassas,  when  the  troops 
under  Stonewall  Jackson  had  made  a  forced  march,  on  halt 
ing  at  night  they  fell  on  the  ground,  exhausted  and  faint. 
The  hour  arrived  for  setting  the  watch  for  the  night.  The 
officer  of  the  day  went  to  the  General's  tent  and  said : 

"General,  the  men  are  all  wearied  and  there  is  not  one  but 
is  asleep.  Shall  I  wake  them?" 

"No,"  said  the  noble  Jackson.  "Let  them  sleep,  and  I  will 
watch  the  camp  tonight." 

And  all  night  long  he  rode  around  that  lonely  camp,  the 
one  lone  sentinel  for  that  brave,  but  weary,  body  of  Virginia 
heroes.  When  glorious  morning  broke,  the  soldiers  awoke 
fresh  and  ready  for  action,  all  unconscious  of  the  vigil  kept 
over  their  slumbers. 

'Twas  at  the  dying  of  the  day, 

The  darkness  grew  so  still 
The  drowsy  pipe  of  evening  birds 

Was  hushed  upon  the  hill. 
Athwart  the  shadows  of  the  vale 

Slumbered  the  men  of  might, 
And  one  lone  sentry  paced  his  rounds 

To  watch  the  camp  that  night. 

[3*] 


THE  LONE  SENTRY 

A  grave  and  solemn  man  was  he, 

With  deep  and  somber  brow; 
The  dreamful  eves  seemed  hoarding  up 

Some  unaccomplished  vow. 
The  wistful  glance  peered  o'er  the  plain 

Beneath  the  starry  light, 
And  with  the  murmured  name  of  God 

He  watched  the  camp  that  night. 

The  future  opened  unto  him 

Its  grand  and  awful  scroll— 
Manassas  and  the  Valley  march 

Came  heaving  o'er  his  soul, 
Richmond  and  Sharpsburg  thundered  by 

With  that  tremendous  fight 
That  gave  him  to  the  angel  host 

Who  watched  the  camp  that  night. 

We  mourn  for  him  who  died  for  us 

With  one  resistless  moan, 
While  up  the  Valley  of  the  Lord 

He  marches  to  the  Throne ! 
He  kept  the  faith  of  men  and  saints 

Sublime  and  pure  and  bright; 
He  sleeps — and  all  is  well  with  him 

Who  watched  the  camp  that  night. 

[37] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Brothers !  The  midnight  of  our  Cause 

Is  shrouded  in  our  fate — 
The  demon  Goths  pollute  our  halls 

With  fire  and  lust  and  hate! 
Be  strong,  be  valiant,  be  assured — 

Strike  home  for  Heaven  and  Right ! 
The  soul  of  Jackson  stalks  abroad 

And  guards  the  camp  tonight. 


AT  FORT  PILLOW 

You  shudder  as  you  think  upon 
The  carnage  of  the  grim  report, 

The  desolation  when  we  won 
The  inner  trenches  of  the  fort. 


But  there  are  deeds  you  may  not  know 
That  scourge  the  pulses  into  strife; 

Dark  memories  of  deathless  woe 
Pointing  the  bayonet  and  knife. 

[38] 


AT  FORT  PILLOW 

The  house  is  ashes  where  I  dwelt 
Beyond  the  mighty  inland  sea, 

The  tombstones  shattered  where  I  knelt 
By  that  old  church  upon  the  lee. 

The  prowling  fiends  who  came  with  fire 
Camped  on  the  consecrated  sod, 

And  trampled  in  the  dust  and  mire 
The  holy  tenement  of  God ! 

The  spot  where  darling  mother  sleeps, 
Beneath  the  glimpse  of  yon  sad  moon, 

Is  crushed,  with  splintered  marble  heaps, 
To  stall  the  horse  of  some  dragoon. 

And  when  I  ponder  that  black  day, 
It  makes  my  frantic  spirit  wince; 

I  marched — with  Longstreet — far  away, 
But  have  beheld  the  ravage  since. 

The  tears  are  hot  upon  my  face, 
When  thinking  what  bleak  fate  befell 
The  only  sister  of  our  race — 
A  thing  too  horrible  to  tell. 

They  say  that  ere  her  senses  fled, 
She  rescued,  of  her  brothers  cried, 

TLen  feebly  bowed  her  stricken  head, 
Too  good  to  live  thus — so  she  died. 

[39] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  EYDER  RANDALL 

Two  of  those  brothers  heard  no  plea, 
With  their  proud  hearts  for  ever  still — 

Guy,  shrouded  by  the  Tennessee, 
And  Bertram  at  the  Malvern  Hill. 

But  I  have  heard  it  everywhere, 
Vibrating  like  a  mystic  knell ; 

'Tis  as  perpetual  as  the  air 
And  solemn  as  a  funeral  bell. 

By  scorched  lagoon  and  murky  swamp, 
My  wrath  was  never  in  the  lurch ; 

I've  killed  the  picket  in  his  camp, 
And  many  a  pilot  on  his  perch. 

With  steady  rifle,  sharpened  brand, 

A  week  ago,  upon  my  steed, 
With  Forrest  and  his  warrior  band, 

I  made  the  hell-hounds  writhe  and  bleed. 

You  should  have  seen  our  leader  go 
Upon  the  battle's  burning  marge, 
Swooping,  like  falcon,  on  the  foe, 
Heading  the  gray  line's  iron  charge. 

All  outcasts  from  our  ruined  marts, 

We  heard  th'  undying  serpent  hiss, 
And,  in  the  desert  of  our  hearts, 
The  fatal  spell  of  Nemesis. 

[40] 


AT  FORT  PILLOW 

The  Southern  yell  rang  loud  and  high, 
The  moment  that  we  thundered  in, 

Smiting  the  demons  hip  and  thigh, 
Cleaving  them  to  the  very  chin. 

My  right  arm,  bared  for  fiercer  play, 
The  left  one  held  the  rein  in  slack ; 

In  all  the  fury  of  the  fray, 

I  sought  the  white  man,  not  the  black. 

The  dabbled  clots  of  brain  and  gore 
Across  the  swirling  sabers  ran ; 

To  me  each  brutal  visage  bore 
The  front  of  one  accursed  man. 

Trobbing  along  the  frenzied  vein, 

My  blood  seemed  kindled  into  song— 

The  death-dirge  of  the  sacred  slain, 
The  slogan  of  immortal  wrong. 

It  glared  athwart  the  dripping  glaives- 
It  blazed  in  each  avenging  eye— 

The  thought  of  desecrated  graves 
And  some  lone  sister's  desperate  cry! 


Wilmington,  April  25,  1864. 


[41] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


OUR  CONFEDERATE  DEAD 


Unknown  to  me,  brave  boy,  but  still  I  wreathe 
For  you  the  tenderest  of  wildwood  flowers ; 

And  o'er  your  tomb  a  virgin's  prayer  I  breathe 
To  greet  the  pure  moon  and  the  April  showers. 

I  only  know,  I  only  care  to  know, 

You  died  for  me — for  me  and  country  bled ; 

A  thousand  Springs  and  wild  December  snow 
Will  weep  for  one  of  all  the  Southern  Dead. 

Perchance  some  mother  gazes  up  the  skies, 
Wailing,  like  Rachel,  for  her  martyred  brave — 

Oh,  for  her  darling  sake,  my  dewy  eyes 
Moisten  the  turf  above  your  lowly  grave. 

The  cause  is  sacred,  when  our  maidens  stand 
Linked  with  sad  matrons  and  heroic  sires, 

Above  the  relics  of  a  vanquished  land, 
And  light  the  torch  of  sanctifying  fires. 

[42] 


OUR  CONFEDERATE  DEAD 

Your  bed  of  honor  has  a  rosy  cope, 
To  shimmer  back  the  tributary  stars; 

And  every  petal  glistens  with  a  hope 

When  Love  has  blossomed  in  the  disk  of  Mars. 

Sleep !  On  your  couch  of  glory  slumber  comes 
Bosomed  amid  th'  archangelic  choir, 

Not  with  the  grumble  of  impetuous  drum, 
Deep'ning  the  chorus  of  embattled  ire. 

Above  you  shall  the  oak  and  cedar  fling 
Their  giant  plumage  and  protecting  shade ; 

For  you  the  song-bird  pause  upon  its  wing 
And  warble  requiem  ever  undismayed. 

Farewell !  And,  if  your  spirit  wander  near 
To  kiss  this  plaint  of  unaspiring  art — 

Translated,  even  in  the  heavenly  sphere, 
As  the  libretto  of  a  maiden's  heart. 


[43] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

PLACIDE  BOSSIER 

Ah,  friend !  in  the  tender  College  time 

No  evil  deed  could  stain  thee, 
And  now  'mid  the  combat's  iron  chime, 

In  purity  they've  slain  thee. 
Sans  peur  et  sans  reproche  to  live, 

Sans  peur  the  foe  defying — 
Sans  peur  et  sans  reproche  we  give 

Thy  epitaph  when  dying. 

When  the  Southern  bullet  sang  the  knell 

Of  the  butchering  invader, 
Then — then  triumphantly  he  fell, 

Our  spotless  young  Crusader ; 
With  the  loud  hurrah  and  the  dauntless  tramp 

Of  the  charging  Creole  yoemen, 
He  fell  where  the  Cherubim  encamp, 

With  his  face  to  the  flying  foemen. 

The  blood  moon  guides  its  torch  of  night 

Through  the  smoke  envolumed  valleys, 
And  the  hillocks  tell  where  the  reddest  fight 

Shook  the  quick,  convulsive  vollies; 
In  the  foremost  phalanx  he  shall  rest 

His  head  in  the  dust  declining, 
The  rifle  shielding  the  soldier  breast — 

The  cross  on  the  saint-heart  shining! 

[44] 


ASHES 


ASHES 


The  Spring  will  come  with  its  ebullient  blood, 

With  flush  of  roses  and  imperial  eyes ; 
A  vein  of  strength  will  throb  along  the  flood — 
Banners  of  beauty  toss  the  pillared  wood 
When  birds  of  music  anthem  to  the  skies. 


And  man  prowls  forth  to  mar  thy  gentle  ways, 

With  sword  and  shot  and  sacrilegious  hand ; 
Thy  reign  is  fallen  upon  demon  days, 
We  peer  at  thee  althrough  a  gory  haze, 
Weeping  and  praying  for  our  stricken  land. 


O  Land !  O  Land !  of  benignant  South ! 

The  Great  High  Priest  approaches  to  thy  brow, 
Anointing  it  with  ashes ;  let  thy  mouth 
Rebel  not,  nor  thy  heart  be  filled  with  drouth— 

The  hand  will  raise  thee  up  that  smites  thee  now. 

Ash  Wednesday,  1865. 

[45] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


THE  UNCONQUERED  BANNER 


"A  Lost  Cause !"  If  lost,  it  was  false ;  if  true,  it  is  not 
lost.  If  the  Cause  is  lost,  the  Constitution  is  lost;  the 
Union,  defined  by  it  is  lost ;  the  liberty  of,  the  States  and  the 
people,  which  they  both  at  first  and  for  half  a  century 
guarded,  are  lost." — Henry  A.  Wise. 

"Yet,  Freedom  yet,  thy  banner,  torn  though  flying, 

Streams,  like  a  thunderstorm,  against  the  wind." 

— Byron. 


The  sad  priest-singer,  in  his  dread  despair, 

When  our  war-trumpets  ceased  their  charging  blare, 

Wailed,  in  melodious  numbers,  o'er  the  South, 

Her  righteous  Cause  crushed  at  the  cannon-mouth. 

He  bade  us  fold  our  banner  and  for  aye, 

Because  its  night  had  come  and  not  one  ray 

Of  hope  remained  to  gild  its  glorious  head, 

And  that  it  typified  the  hopeless  dead. 

[46] 


THE  UNCONQUERED  BANNER 

The  peerless  poet  of  that  desperate  age 
Wrote  an  immortal  lyric,  but  the  rage 
Of  the  aggressive  section  is  no  more, 
And  thus  our  Southern  flag,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Emerges  like  an  eagle  from  its  sleep 
To  woo  the  sun,  and,  in  its  heart  to  keep 
The  never-dying  principle  of  Right, 
Surviving  every  fierce,  unequal  fight. 

Men  die,  but  principles  can  know  no  death — 

No  last  extinguishment  of  mortal  breath. 

We  fought  for  what  our  fathers  held  in  trust; 

It  did  not  fall  forever  in  the  dust. 

Our  foemen  sought  to  make  us  worse  than  slaves 

And  envy  all  who  sleep  in  hero-graves; 

They  failed  at  last  to  do  the  deed  they  meant— 

They  failed  in  trying  God  to  circumvent. 

And  well  for  them  they  failed,  for,  in  the  end, 
Their  fate  and  ours  must  ever  interblend, 
If  we  have  Csesar,  so  must  Caesar  be 
With  them  in  fullest  perpetuity. 
If  they  have  empire  and  the  sordid  ban 
Of  Shylock  and  the  money-changing  clan  ; 
The  South  is  blameless ;  for  she  holds  in  fee 
The  stainless  swords  of  Washington  and  Lee. 

[47] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  KYDEE  RANDALL 

There  was  scant  glory  in  our  overthrow — 

Not  Valor  did  it,  but  a  brutal  blow. 

Five  hundred  thousand  Hessians  and  a  horde 

Of  blacks  and  Tories  broke  the  Southern  Sword. 

Shut  from  the  sea,  o'erwhelmed  upon  the  land, 

We  fought  the  battle  to  a  final  stand. 

But  the  Great  Cause,  outlasting  all  debates, 

Lives  in  free  union  of  unfettered  States. 


Now,  let  our  Banner,  symbol  of  the  Bight, 

Kiss  every  wind  in  its  unconquered  might ; 

Let  the  glad  spirit  of  the  poet-priest 

Hover  above  this  grand  Beunion  feast 

To  watch  our  Banner,  from  the  grave  of  strife 

Rise  with  the  glory  of  a  new-born  life; 

Twined  with  the  ancient  flag,  o'er  land  and  main. 

And  wed  to  deathless  liberty  again. 


[48] 


AT  ARLINGTON 


AT  ARLINGTON 


On  the  day  that  the  graves  of  the  Federal  soldiers  buried 
at  Arlington  were  decorated,  in  1869,  a  number  of  ladies 
entered  the  cemetery  for  the  purpose  of  placing  flowers  on 
the  graves  of  thirty  Confederates.  Their  progress  was 
stopped  by  bayonets,  and  they  were  not  allowed  to  perform 
their  mission  of  love.  During  the  night  a  high  wind  arose, 
and  in  the  morning  all  the  floral  offerings  that  had  been 
placed  the  day  before  upon  the  Federal  graves  were  found 
piled  upon  the  mounds  under  which  reposed  the  thirty  Con 
federates. 

The  broken  column,  reared  in  air 

To  him  who  made  our  country  great, 
Can  almost  cast  its  shadow  where 
The  victims  of  a  grand  despair, 
In  long,  long  ranks  of  death  await 

The  last  loud  trump,  the  Judgment-Sun, 
Which  come  for  all,  and,  soon  or  late, 
Will  come  for  those  at  Arlington. 

[49] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

In  that  vast  sepulchre  repose 

The  thousands  reaped  from  every  fray ; 
The  Men  in  Blue  who  once  uprose 
In  battle-front  to  smite  their  foes — 
The  Spartan  Bands  who  wore  the  grey ; 
The  combat  o'er,  the  death-hug  done, 
In  summer  blaze  or  winter  snows, 
They  keep  the  truce  at  Arlington. 

And  almost  lost  in  myriad  graves, 

Of  those  who  gained  the  unequal  fight, 
Are  mounds  that  hide  Confederate  braves, 
Who  reck  not  how  the  North  wind  raves, 
In  dazzling  day  or  dimmest  night, 

O'er  those  who  lost  and  those  who  won ; 
Death  holds  no  parley  which  was  right — 
Jehovah  judges  Arlington. 

The  dead  had  rest ;  the  Dove  of  Peace 

Brooded  o'er  both  with  equal  wings ; 
To  both  had  come  that  great  surcease, 
The  last  omnipotent  release 

From  all  the  world's  delirious  stings. 

To  bugle  deaf  and  signal-gun, 
They  slept,  like  heroes  of  old  Greece, 
Beneath  the  glebe  at  Arlington. 

[50] 


AT  ARLINGTON 

And  in  the  Spring's  benignant  reign, 

The  sweet  May  woke  her  harp  of  pines ; 
Teaching  her  choir  a  thrilling  strain 
Of  jubilee  to  land  and  main, 

She  danced  in  emerald  down  the  lines. 

Denying  largesse  bright  to  none, 
She  saw  no  difference  in  the  signs 
That  told  who  slept  at  Arlington. 

She  gave  her  grasses  and  her  showers 
To  all  alike  who  dreamed  in  dust; 
Her  song-birds  wove  their  dainty  bowers 
Amid  the  jasmine  buds  and  flowers, 
And  piped  with  an  impartial  trust ; 
Waifs  of  the  air  and  liberal  sun, 
Their  guileless  glees  were  kind  and  just 
To  friend  and  foe  at  Arlington. 

And  'mid  the  generous  spring  there  came 

Some  women  of  the  land,  who  strove 
To  make  this  funeral-field  of  fame 
Glad  as  the  May-God's  altar-flame, 
With  rosy  wreaths  of  mutual  love — 
Unmindful  who  had  lost  or  won, 
They  scorned  the  jargon  of  a  name — 
No  North,  no  South,  at  Arlington. 

[61] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Between  their  pious  thought  and  God 
Stood  files  of  men  with  brutal  steel ; 
The  garlands  placed  on  "Rebel  sod" 
Were  trampled  in  the  common  clod, 
To  die  beneath  the  hireling  heel. 

Facing  this  triumph  of  the  Hun, 
Our  Smoky  Caesar  gave  no  nod, 

To  keep  the  peace  at  Arlington. 

Jehovah  judged — abashing  man — 

For  in  the  vigils  of  the  night, 
His  mighty  storm-avengers  ran 
Together  in  one  choral  clan, 

Rebuking  wrong,  rewarding  right; 

Plucking  the  wreaths  from  those  who  won. 

The  tempest  heaped  them  dewy-bright 

On  REBEL  graves  at  Arlington. 

And  when  the  morn  came  young  and  fair, 

Brimful  of  blushes  ripe  and  red, 
Knee-deep  in  sky-sent  roses  there, 
Nature  began  her  earliest  prayer 
Above  triumphant  Southern  dead. 

So,  in  the  dark  and  in  the  sun, 
Our  Cause  survives  the  Tyrant's  tread, 
And  sleeps  to  wake  at  Arlington. 

[52] 


POEMS 

SENTIMENTAL  AND  MISCELLANEOUS 
PART  SECOND 


Beginning  with  "The  Oriel  Window",  ending  with 
"Resurgam" 


THE  ORIEL  WINDOW 


THE    ORIEL    WINDOW 


I  pray  in  the  country  church,  alas ! 

With  missal  and  mind  contrary; 
And  in  spite  of  the  hymn  and  the  blessed  Mass, 

In  spite  of  my  Ave  Mary, 
My  fancies  are  drowned  in  the  faces  around, 

In  spite  of  my  Ave  Mary ! 


The  bluffs,  the  breeze,  the  bulwark  trees, 
Are  grand  and  glad  and  holy  yet; 

The  river  as  proudly  seeks  the  seas 
As  it  did  in  the  days  of  Joilet — 

It's  wave-lips  stirr'd  with  the  babble  of  a  bird 
As  a  psalm  and  a  psalter  for  Joilet. 

[55] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

And  then  uprolled  from  the  rafter's  mold, 

Come  the  dear  ones,  the  departed — 
The  fair  and  old  'neath  the  marigold, 

The  bold  and  the  broken-hearted — 
Till  I  shudder  to  think  how  we  rabble  on  the  brink 

Of  the  early  broken-hearted. 

In  mystic  trance  of  my  old  Romance, 

I  let  all  my  sorrow  and  sin  go; 
Forgetting  the  graves  as  they  glance  and  dance 

Down — down  through  the  ghastly  window— 
With  column  and  cross  and  banners  of  moss, 

Down — down  through  the  Oriel  Window. 

A  purple  band  from  the  Phantom  Land, 

Come  the  idol-gods  I  cherished, 
And  lo !  they  stand  by  a  throne  of  sand, 
With  palsied  brows  and  perished — 
And  scoop  from  the  shore  of  the  sea  no  more 

The  shells  of  the  Past  and  Perished. 

But  from  those  shells  ring  passion  bells, 

Till  my  soul  from  its  sacred  duty 
Is  ravished  along  with  an  earthly  song, 

But  a  song  of  love  and  beauty, 
Till  the  air  is  aglow  with  lustrous  hair 

And  dark-eyed  songs  of  beauty. 

[56] 


THE  ORIEL  WINDOW 

She  kneels  in  a  nook  by  the  dusty  choir, 

WTith  aspect  lost  and  lornful ; 
My  breast  is  gored  with  spears  of  fire 

To  see  her  looking  so  mournful — 
Ah,  'tis  not  meet  that  one  so  sweet 

Should  ever  be  moody  and  mournful. 

She  tells,  I  wist,  the  beads  on  her  wrist, 

With  a  gentle,  lyrical  motion ; 
And  she  seems  in  a  mist  when  the  Eucharist 

Is  soared  for  the  people's  devotion ; 
While  a  glittering  crown  for  the  head  bowed  down 

Is  the  meed  of  her  dear  devotion. 

Have  you  come  in  the  guise  of  Paradise 

Our  heart-troth  to  dissever? 
In  tears,  for  the  lonesome,  bitter  years, 

Would  you  woo  me  back  forever? 
Oh,  speak,  love,  speak  what  your  sad  eyes  seek, 

And  win  me  back  forever ! 

Both  overthrown,  we  both  have  known 
How  the  chains  of  mortality  clank  ill— 

But  tonight,  tonight  a  vow  we'll  plight, 
To  make  our  wild  hearts  tranquil ; 

While  the  flambeaux  shine  over  thine  and  mine 
Untroubled,  untortured  and  tranquil. 


[57] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

She  kneels  in  a  nook  by  the  dusty  choir, 
Shakes  the  bloom  from  my  dream-mimosa, 

I  rush  to  the  nook  in  the  choir  to  greet 
The  Mater  Dolorosa ! 

Nought,  nought  was  there  but  a  sculptured  prayer 
Of  the  Mater  Dolorosa. 


No  more  in  a  trance  of  my  old  Romance 
Shall  I  let  all  my  sorrow  and  sin  go ; 

But  I'll  join  the  graves  as  they  glance  and  dance 
Down — down  through  the  ghastly  window, 

With  column  and  cross,  and  banners  of  moss 
Down — down  through  the  Oriel  Window ! 

Point  Coupee  on  the  Mississippi,  1861. 


[58] 


ANIMA 


ANIMA 

You  came  to  me  in  feeble  health,  the  hectic  on  your 
cheek, 

Revealed  to  my  adoring  sight  a  body  frail  and  weak ; 

The  lissome  form,  the  glamoured  eyes,  the  spirit  un- 
denled, 

These,  and  a  glimpse  of  early  death,  I  saw,  beloved 
child! 

And  if,  my  guilty  heart  could  dare  to  make  your 
heart  its  goal— 

I  did  not  love  you  for  your  face — I  loved  you  for 
your  soul ! 

You  came  to  me  a  waif  of  God,  unsullied  by  deceit; 
I  felt  it  sacrilege  to  kiss  the  shadows  of  your  feet. 
And  when  your  thoughts  were  magnified  beyond  the 

dull  terrene, 
Me  dreamt  you  sat  within  the  Heaven  beside  the 

Nazarene. 
And  if  my  fierce  emotions  seared  your  being  like  a 

scroll — 
I  did  not  love  you  for  your  face — I  love  you  for  your 

soul! 

[59] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  EYDEE  KANDALL 

You  came  to  me  like  manna  dews — like  an  embodied 

prayer; 
Till  your  imploring  accents  turned  the  torrent  of 

despair. 
You  made  me  feel  the  blight  of  Sin,  the  majesty  of 

Love, 
And  when  I  clutched  an  earthly  crown,  you  merely 

glanced  above. 
Oh,  gladly  for  you  would  these  hands  demand  the 

beggar's  dole — 
I  did  not  love  you  for  your  face — I  loved  you  for 

your  soul! 

You  left  me,  darling  child,  before  the  Promised  Land 
was  won, 

And  it  was  hard  for  me  to  look  upon  the  living  sun. 

'Twas  no  ignoble  whim  that  hoped  to  make  you  mine 
alway ; 

My  idol  was  no  frenzy  of  the  perishable  clay. 

And  if  I  kneel  to  you  no  more,  save  by  the  church 
yard  knoll, 

1  have  not  loved  you  for  your  face — I've  loved  you 
for  your  soul! 


[60] 


EIDOLON 


EIDOLON 


Ah,  sweet-eyed  Christ !  Thy  image  smiles 

In  its  Cathedral  cell, 
Shrined  in  the  heaven-enamored  arms 

Of  her  who  never  fell ; 
And  if  my  phantom  eyes  implore 

A  more  benignant  beam, 
Tis  a  nepenthe  I  would  crave 

For  a  memorial  dream ! 


Dear  Leonie !  here  did'st  thou  kneel 

That  musky  summer  noon, 
As  the  zephyrs  kissed  in  ecstasy 

The  dimpled  cheeks  of  June — 
As  the  sunlight  drifted  o'er  thy  brow 

A  golden  wave  of  grace, 
Bright  blending  with  the  miracles 

Of  that  angelic  face. 

[61] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Adorably  Madonna-like, 

By  this  communion  rail, 
Thy  raptured  face,  though  rich  with  youth, 

Was  spirit-lit  and  pale ; 
And  oh  those  opulent  blue  eyes, 

Those  Meccas  of  despair — 
They,  they  were  glorious  Eden-isles 

Lost  in  a  lake  of  prayer ! 

Saint  Leonie !  I  saw  thee  flit 

Gazelle-like  to  the  street, 
And  pure,  melodious  angels  led 

Thy  dainty,  tinkling  feet ; 
My  rebel  thoughts  were  petrel-winged, 

Attendant  upon  thee, 
Chasing  thy  loved  and  lissome  shape 

As  Arabs  of  the  sea. 


Long  did  I  love  thee,  'belle  Creole, 

As  Gebirs  love  the  sun, 
And  in  the  temple  of  my  soul 

Thou  wast  the  eidolon ; 
Long  did  I  love  thee,  belle  Creole, 

Where  corsair  billows  rise, 
And  where  the  silver  planets  soar 

In  unfamiliar  skies ! 

[62] 


EIDOLON 

Dark  Corcovado !  did  I  not, 

With  heart  and  soul  aflame, 
Carve  on  thy  broad,  monarchal  brow 

Her  wildly-worshipped  name  - 
Watching  the  homeward  ships  scud  by 

Before  the  nimble  breeze, 
Till  memory  with  them  wept  away 

Beyond  the  tropic  seas! 

Years,  years  had  died,  and  once  again 

I  saw  the  spires  of  home; 
Then,  armed  with  an  undying  hope, 

I  stood  beneath  this  dome. 
But  not  within  the  pillared  aisle, 

Nor  by  the  sacred  sign, 
Could  my  bewildered  eyes  behold 

The  loveliness  of  thine. 

The  sad  November  days  had  come, 

And  eagerly  I  fled 
To  find  thee  where  the  maidens  deck 

The  kingdoms  of  the  dead ; 
I  found  thee — yes,  I  found  thee,  love, 

Beneath  the  willow  tree — 
With  marble  cross  and  immortelle 

And  one  word — "Leonie !" 

[63] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  EYDEE  RANDALL 


THE  DAMSEL  OF  MOBILE 


I  met  thee  in  the  Summer  time, 

The  Summer  of  my  youth — 
In  days  of  my  melodious  prime 

And  thine  unsullied  truth. 
I  met  thee  when  the  jasmine  buds, 

Their  velvet  locks  reveal ; 
'Til  I  loved  thee,  'til  I  loved  thee, 

Darling  Damsel  of  Mobile! 


O  shining  tresses  of  the  sun ! 

O  eyes  of  ocean  blue ! 
O  dainty  feet  to  nimbly  run 

Upon  the  glittering  dew! 
The  cypress  breathes  its  gloomy  buds 

On  all  I  felt  and  feel- 
Still  I  love  thee !    Still  I  love  thee ! 

Darling  Damsel  of  Mobile ! 

[64] 


THE  DAMSEL  OF  MOBILE 

And  now  the  Summer  time  no  more, 

The  vikings  of  the  rain 
Thunder  their  turf-steeds  on  the  shore 

And  prowl  the  jasmine  plain; 
The  night  shade  blackens  on  my  brow, 

The  lightnings  gash  like  steel — 
But  a  Summer  heart  still  throbs  for  thee, 

Darling  Damsel  of  Mobile ! 


I  know,  I  know  that  Summer  goes, 

Like  some  divine  disguise; 
I  know  that  Summer  rapture  flows 

By  ringlets  and  blue  eyes — 
But  thou,  my  Psyche  and  my  soul ! 

To  thee  alone  I  kneel, 
With  the  Summer  sunshine  in  thy  hair, 

Darling  Damsel  of  Mobile! 


[65] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


THE  DYING  GIRL 

Written  at  the  Age  of  Sixteen 

Earth  is  fading — heaven  beaming — 
All  around  grows  dark  and  chill ; 

White  robed  phantoms  near  me  streaming- 
Streaming,  streaming,  streaming  still. 

Clasp  me,  mother,  clasp  me  lightly, 
Lest  you  press  the  soul  too  soon 

From  the  form  that  once  shone  brightly — 
Quenched  its  brilliance  in  its  noon. 

Kiss  me,  father,  kiss  me  sweetly ; 

Smoothe  the  ringlets  from  my  brow — 
Quick — oh  quick — for  fleetly,  fleetly 

Speeds  life's  current  from  me  now ! 

Where  is  Harry,  where  is  Harry  ? 

Far  from  Stella's  weeping  bed ; 
Who  to  him  my  words  shall  carry — 

Who  shall  tell  him  I  am  dead ! 

[66] 


THE  DYING  GIRL 

Far  away,  he  thinks  me  blooming 

Into  beauty  proud  and  dear, 
While  before  my  orbs  are  looming 

Visions  of  the  shroud  and  bier. 

Take  these  withered  lilies  to  him— 

Whence  this  tremor,  whence  this  gloom? 

Show  the  buds,  all  drooping,  show  him — 
Let  him  strew  them  o'er  my  tomb. 

Icy  drops  upon  me  gleaming  — 
Slower,  slower  pants  my  breath ; 

Tell  me,  mother,  am  I  dreaming — 
Tell  me,  am  I  tasting  death? 

I  am  going !  I  am  going ! 

Far  from  Harry — far  from  home, 
Where  eternal  truth  is  glowing — 

Where  the  meteor  angels  roam. 

The  spoiler  comes,  on  flashing  pinions, 

Thirsting  is  his  eager  dart ; 
Now  he  beckons  to  his  minions — 

Now  his  keen  lance  drinks  my  heart! 

Farewell,  father!  farewell,  mother! 

Catch  my  latest  look  and  sigh ; 
Farewell,  Harry — more  than  brother — 

God  of  life!  I  die— I  die! 

[67] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


JAMAIS 


Early  love  is  swift  and  golden, 

Fond  and  foolish,  too,  perchance, 
But  'tis  haloed  by  the  olden, 

Golden  moonlight  of  romance. 
Once  it's  ripe  aurelia  bound  me, 

Brimful  with  the  birds  of  May; 
By  the  ruins  that  surround  me, 

It  shall  bind  no  more — Jamais ! 


Once  I  felt  the  blue  above  thee, 

Peri-peopled  by  thine  art; 
But  'twas  death  in  life  to  love  thee, 

Woman  of  the  diamond  heart ! 
Thou  hast  sown  the  sky  with  ashes, 

Made  its  constellations  grey, 
While  the  wind-gust  knells  and  gnashes 

Dirge-like  to  the  night — "Jamais !  " 

[68] 


JAMAIS 

I  was  rich  in  pure  affection, 

Passions  chastened  and  alert  — 
But  my  rival  had  perfection 

In  the  opulence  of — dirt. 
He  but  wooed  thee  to  deceive  thee, 

Won  thee,  only  to  betray; 
Shall  that  shadow  ever  leave  thee? 

Never  while  I  live — Jamais! 

Time  is  just,  and  Fate's  surrender 

Comes  like  chrism  and  myrrh  to  me. 
He  is  quelled  in  coffined  splendor, 

Hearsed  in  marble  mimicry. 
I — though  Arctic  years  have  chilled  me, 

Thrust  my  stature  in  the  day ; 
But  the  voice  that  erst  has  thrilled  me, 

Thrills  no  more — Jamais!  Jamais! 

Though  with  purpose  unbenighted, 
Though  with  intellect  unshorn, 

Still  my  spirit  maimed  and  blighted, 
Bleeds  beyond  its  battle  morn. 

Herbless  deserts  demon-haunted, 
Mark  the  fury  of  the  fray, 

But  that  spirit,  still  undaunted, 

Bends  to  thee — Jamais!  Jamais! 

[69] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Woman !  I  shall  cling  beside  thee 
As  a  marvel  in  thy  way ; 

While  I  scorn,  I  shall  deride  thee 
With  this  requiem  of  "Jamais!" 

Sleep — with  adders  on  thy  pillow- 
Wake — but  spectral  shapes  of  clay, 

Flocking  from  the  cloud  and  billow, 
Goad  thee  with— "Jamais !  "  "Jamais !  " 


THE    CAMEO    BRACELET 

Eva  sits  on  the  ottoman  there, 
Sits  by  a  Psyche  carved  in  stone, 

With  just  such  a  face  and  just  such  an  air, 
As  Esther  upon  her  throne. 

She's  sifting  lint  for  the  brave  who  bled, 
And  I  watch  her  fingers  float  and  flow 

Over  the  linen,  as  thread  by  thread, 
It  flakes  to  her  lap  like  snow. 

A  bracelet  clinks  on  her  delicate  wrist, 
Wrought,  as  Cellini's  were  at  Rome, 

Out  of  the  tears  of  the  amethyst 
And  the  wan  Vesuvian  foam. 

[70] 


THE  CAMEO  BRACELET 

And  fall  on  the  bauble-crest  alway — 

A  cameo  image  keen  and  fine — 
Glares  thy  impetuous  knife,  Corday, 

And  the  Lara-locks  are  thine. 

I  thought  of  the  wehr-wolves  on  our  trail, 
Their  gaunt  fangs  sluiced  with  gouts  of  blood; 

'Til  the  Past,  in  a  dead,  mesmeric  veil, 
Drooped  with  a  wizard  flood. 

'Til  the  surly  blaze,  through  the  iron  bars, 
Shot  to  the  hearth,  with  a  pang  and  cry— 

And  a  lank  howl  plunged  from  the  Champ  de  Mars 
To  the  Column  of  July. 

'Til  Corday  sprang  from  the  gem,  I  swear, 

And  the  dove-eyed  damsel  I  knew  had  flown — 

For  Eva  was  not  on  the  ottoman  there, 
By  Psyche  carved  in  stone. 

She  grew  like  a  Pythoness,  flushed  with  fate, 

With  the  incantation  in  her  gaze — 
A  lip  of  scorn,  an  arm  of  hate, 

And  a  dirge  of  the  Marseillaise ! 

Eva,  the  vision  was  not  wild, 

When  wreaked  on  the  tyrants  of  the  land — 
For  you  were  transfigured  to  Nemesis,  child, 

WTith  the  dagger  in  your  hand ! 

[71] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


THE    COBRA    CAPELLO 


"The  cobra,  though  exceedingly  venomous,  has  an  aspect 
of  gentleness  and  docility." — Encyclopedia. 


Beautiful — yes !  for  her  basilisk  eyes 

Gleam  out  when  the  features  are  luscious  and  mel 
low; 
Beautiful — yes !  but  adown  the  disguise, 

I  detect  just  a  tinge  of  the  Cobra  Capello. 


And  I  think  Mother  Eve  looked  exactly  like  this 
When  she  played  such  a  prank  on  uxorious  Adam ; 

I've  a  chronic  dislike  to  a  serpentine  kiss, 
And  never  eat  apples  in  any  style,  Madam. 


Beautiful — yes !  as  she  paddles  her  fan 

'Mid  the  bordered  lagoons  of  her  robe  of  white 

muslin ; 
And  the  tight  little  boot  taps  a  quick  rataplan, 

In  a  way  most  piratical,  not  to  say  puzzling. 

[72] 


THE  COBRA  CAPELLO 

She  prates  of  Tom  Noddy,  the  handsome  young  goose 
Of  Don  Trombonetti,  divine  on  the  flute; 

And  then,  with  a  smile  that's  as  arch  as — the  deuce, 
Quotes  pert  panegyrics  on  somebody's  foot ! 

She'll  sing  you  a  hymn  or  tell  you  a  fib, 

(Just  one  of  those  cynical,  feathery  trifles,) 

And  then,  with  a  smirk  that  I  think  rather  glib, 
Sigh  after  some  monster  that  left  with  the  Rifles. 

She  vows  I'm  a  miracle  walking  with  men — 

(Ugh!  I  swallow  it  all  with  a  groan  and  a  cough), 

For  I  know  that  most  women  are  comical,  when 
Their  nightcaps  are  on  and  the  visitors  off! 

Ay,  rattle  ahead  and  prattle  away, 

But,  in  sepulchred  thought,  I  brood  over  another; 
We  parted,  alas !  about  nine  months  today, 

And  we  never  must  meet  again — somehow  or  other. 

They  tell  me,  poor  bird,  it  is  painful  to  see 

How  you've  changed,  since  we  rode  in  the  warm 
summer  weather; 

And  oh,  if  I  felt  you  were  pining  for  me, 

I'd  hew  me  a  path  that  would  bring  us  together. 


[73] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

In  your  solitude  still,  do  you  sing  the  old  songs? 

O,  the  "Long  Weary  Day!"  shall  it  cease  for  us 

never  ? 
But  here,  in  the  ruck  of  the  sumptuous  throngs, 

Your  name  in  my  lone  heart  is  sacred  forever ! 

Ah  me !  I  am  chill,  for  'tis  fearful  to  sit 

By   the   Cobra,   when   languished   with   tenderer 
matters — 

Ha !  I  see  that  my  secret  is  guessed — every  bit — 
For  she's  nibbling  her  lip,  and  the  fan  is  in  tatters. 

Beautiful — yes !  but  I  shall  not  succumb, 
Though  wifeless  from  Beersheba  even  to  Dan ; 

Heigho !  if  my  heart  were  but  under  her  thumb, 
She'd  crumple  it,  too,  like  the  innocent  fan! 


[74] 


WHY  THE  ROBIN'S  BREAST  IS  RED 

The  Saviour,  bowed  beneath  his  cross, 

Clomb  up  the  dreary  hill, 
While  from  the  agonizing  wreath 

Ran  many  a  crimson  rill. 
The  brawny  Roman  thrust  him  on 

WTith  unrelenting  hand- 
Till,  staggering  slowly  'mid  the  crowd, 

He  fell  upon  the  sand. 

A  little  bird  that  warbled  near, 

That  memorable  day, 
Flitted  around  and  strove  to  wrench 

One  single  thorn  away ; 
The  cruel  spike  impaled  his  breast, 

And  thus  'tis  sweetly  said, 
The  Robin  wears  his  silver  vest 

In  panoplies  of  red. 

Ah  Jesu !  Jesu !  Son  of  Man ! 

My  dolour  and  my  sighs 
Reveal  the  lesson  taught  by  this 

Winged  Ishmael  of  the  skies. 
I,  in  the  palace  of  delight, 

Or  caverns  of  despair, 
Have  plucked  no  thorns  from  Thy  dear  brow, 

But  planted  thousands  there ! 

[75] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


ADIEU 


Adieu!  adieu! 

Bright  eye  of  blue, 
With  ebbless  oceans  in  thy  hue; 

Unloved,  unblest, 

I  can  not  rest, 
While  thou  art  waving  to  the  West. 

His  prayer  surceased, 

The  Golden  Priest 
Hath  chanted  Masses  in  the  East, 

And  soon  will  skim 

The  river's  rim, 
To  sing  his  dying  vesper  hymn. 

I  think— I  think 

If  I  could  sink 
Beyond  this  juggling  orbit's  brink, 

That  I  might  drown 

The  Demon's  frown, 
Where  suns  and  satellites  go  down. 

[76] 


ADIEU 

Farewell !  farewell ! 

My  bonnie  belle, 
I  dungeon  what  I  cannot  quell ; 

Distraction's  slave, 

I  weep  and  rave, 
While  prophets  warn  me  from  the  grave. 

A  wretch  abhorred, 

I  broke  my  sword 
Upon  the  buckler  of  the  Lord ; 

I  feel  the  shock, 

Upon  my  rock, 
While  the  foul  condors  'round  me  flock. 

Good-bye!  good-bye! 

I  can  not  die 
Beneath  thy  sacramental  eye; 

WTien  gulf  and  knoll 

Atween  us  roll, 
Wilt  thou  be  patient  then,  my  soul? 

Adieu!  adieu! 

Sad  eye  of  blue ; 
I've  wrecked  my  life  within  thy  hue. 

I  grieve,  I  grieve, 

And  yet  I  live 
To  know  the  future  God  may  give. 

[77] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDEE  RANDALL 

I  flee  the  plain, 

Accurst  by  Cain, 
To  grasp  my  battle-ax  again; 

And  in  the  sign 

Of  Bread  and  Wine 
God  the  Consoler !  I  am  Thine ! 


SILVER  SPRING 

When  the  Lord  of  Light  revealed 
The  flashing  radiance  of  His  shield, 
Glorifying  wave  and  field ; 
When  he  felt  he  must  expire, 
Then  His  orbs  with  blazing  ire 
Shot  their  dying  shafts  of  fire; 
When  the  palpitating  breeze 
Smote  the  gitterns  of  the  trees, 
Like  the  shout  of  distant  seas; 
When  the  jeweled  birds  that  sing 
Moved  on  rainbow-tinted  wing, 
I  beheld  thy  face  of  splendor  blushing  with  the  wild 

and  tender, 
Silver  Spring! 

[78] 


SILVER  SPRING 

Virgin!  when  the  shadows  roll 
To  the  ice-embattled  pole, 
From  thy  sweet,  pellucid  soul- 
Each  angelic  host  on  high 
Sees  in  that  cerulian  eye 
Blossom-beauties  of  the  sky. 
Blessed  spirits!  ye  who  dwell 
Far  beyond  the  ether  swell, 
How  ye  anthem,  "It  is  well !  " 
On  thy  bosom  let  me  seem 
Kerneled  in  a  Bagdad  dream, 

Rocked  to  slumber  by  a  Seraph  over  thy  celestial 
stream ! 

On  a  fairy,  pensive  pinion 
Gloat  I  o'er  thy  deep  dominion, 
Shaming  e'en  the  Augustinian ; 
Wonders  rushing  thicker — faster! 
Here  a  porphyry  piaster, 
Here  a  temple  alabaster; 
And  the  sunshine  as  it  falls 
Splinters  on  quintillion  halls, 
And  a  miracle  of  walls! 
Now  thy  bannerets  are  beaming — 
Now  with  mystic  music  gleaming 
O'er  a  city — gem-girt  city — in   a  gush   of  dervish 
dreaming ! 

[79] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Here,  ah  here,  the  Indian  maiden, 
When  with  love  and  languor  laden, 
Sought  thee,  as  the  cells  of  Adenn ; 
With  a  world  of  gentle  guesses, 
In  thy  flood  her  floating  tresses 
Poured  their  cascade  of  caresses! 
Here  her  hero  from  the  rattle 
Of  the  crimson  blows  of  battle, 
Slept  beneath  her  soothing  prattle — 
Slept — but,  ere  the  sun's  decline, 
Like  the  lightning-riven  pine, 

And  his  heart's  blood,  Silver  Billow,  swept  its  throb- 
bings  into  thine. 

When  the  sad  and  solemn  moon 
Muses  o'er  the  lone  lagoon,' 
And  laughs  the  melancholy  loon, 
When  the  crooning  winter  breeze, 
Hapless  from  the  Hebrides, 
Chafes  the  dead  cathedral  trees; 
'Mid  the  vultures  muffled  wails, 
Stifled  by  the  panther  hails 
Shuddering  up  palmetto  trails ; 
When  the  globe  is  wrought  in  sleep, 
When  the  gnomes  their  vigils  keep 
By  the  mountain  and  the  deep — 
I  can  fancy  phantom  things, 
On  their  thunder-tarnished  wings, 
Soaring  with  a  fallen  grandeur  over  the  enchanted 
springs !  [  80  ] 


QUEEN  OF  THE  WAX  DOLLS 

Dusky  plume  and  siroc  frown, 
Lo  the  night  conies  trampling  down 
O'er  thy  palaces  and  town ! 
Lo!   a  legion   like  the  stars, 
Speeding  from  their  crystal  cars, 
Leap  beyond  the  sable  bars; 
How  they  glittered  as  they  roll'd! 
How  thy  streets  are  stormed  with  gold! 
Undine!  Undine!  thou  art  princess  of  the  parables 
of  old! 


TO  THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  WAX  DOLLS 


'Twas  in  the  old  church  yard  I  told  you  all, 

Beneath  the  Norway  pine; 
There,  by  your  mother's  grave,  I  thought  to  call 

That  poor  lost  mother  mine. 

I  saw  you  bend  above  an  orphan  child 

To  kiss  its  winsome  face; 
This  woman,  quoth  I,  is  all  undefiled, 

A  miracle  of  grace. 

[81] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  EYDEE  KANDALL 

The  world  could  never  guess  your  riddle  quite, 

Nor  shake  your  soft  repose ; 
The  same  meek  orbs  that  shone  upon  the  night, 
Were  stars  when  morning  rose. 

Oh  hypocrite!  your  cool,  Antarctic  sighs 

Make  memory  an  eclipse; 
I  feel  the  serpent  from  those  poisoned  eyes 

Browsing  upon  my  lips. 

You  changed.    You  stumbled  from  the  better 

path; 

You  robed  your  vows  on  biers ; 
And  now  my  lexicon  of  love  and  wrath 
Is  syllabled  with  tears. 

You    changed!      Your    eyes    are    purple-lidded 
beads, 

Your  hair  a  coil  of  flax, 
And  the  cold  splendor  of  your  shape  recedes 

Into  a  mould  of  wax! 

0,  wormwood !  that  a  thing  of  wax  and  wire 
Could  make  me  love  it  so; 

1,  with  a  Hecla-heart  and  nerve  of  fire, 
Gasping  amid  that  snow. 

[82] 


QUEEN  OF  THE  WAX  DOLLS 

And  now,  repenting,  you  would  be  my  wife, 
Would  pawn  your  troth  to  me — 
Poor  Doll !  beyond  the  icebergs  of  your  life 
There  throbs  no  open  sea! 

I  sought  it  once,  and  lo!  my  former  self 

Is  shipwrecked  in  the  quest. 
See  the  impassioned  Franklin,  with  his  pelf, 

Dead  on  your  gelid  breast. 

You  scream — 'tis  but  a  delicate  doll's  cry — 

A  trick,  as  all  perceive  it; 
They  say  you're  stuffed  with  sawdust — though  a 
lie, 

A  skeptic  might  believe  it! 


STONE  APPLES 


'Mid  the  shimmer  of  lamps  and  the  redowa's  dash. 

Where  the  trumpet  the  thick-tongued  song  salutes- 
'Mid  the  flutter  of  gauze  and  the  diamond's  flash, 

'Mid  the  masquerade  of  flutes ! 

[83] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

The  boreal  wind  outside  was  keen, 

And  the  heavens  had  frosty  eyes  that  night; 
Within  was  the  realm  of  a  tropic  queen, 

Auroral  with  delight. 


Amiddle  the  foam  of  the  frescoed  ships 
On  the  pictured  walls  were  the  genii  grim ; 

And  the  languid  lotus,  with  chaliced  lips, 
Was  nectared  to  the  brim. 


Here  bevies  of  blondes  with  hyacinth  hair, 
Flirt  their  silver  arms  'mid  the  fervid  dance; 

And  the  dusk-eyed  brunette  wreathes  her  snare 
Through  the  sensuous  advance. 


The  vivid,  voluptuous  waltz  is  done, 
But  the  beaux  are  busy  as  they  can  be ; 

The  buzzing  butterflies  round  the  sun 
Of  a  dazzling  coterie. 


But  I,  in  the  wavering  whirl  of  mirth 
Cast  gloom  and  glamour  far  and  wide; 

To  me  'twas  the  emptiness  of  earth — 
The  feast  of  the  Barmecide. 

[84] 


STONE  APPLES 

And  there  in  a  niche  by  the  colonnade, 
Alone  with  the  crisp  and  biting  breeze, 

I  counted  the  curves  by  the  river  made, 
And  the  grenadier-like  trees. 


And  I  vow  that  the  cold  and  dark  to  me 
Were  better  than  melody,  wit  and  wine, 

For  I  saw,  what  never  on  earth  should  be, 
Under  the  chill  moonshine. 


I  saw  by  the  sinewy  river  side 
A  willowy  cottage,  neat  and  white, 

Where  the  bayou  ripples  prank  and  glide 
To  the  clover  aleft  and  right. 


And  a  damsel,  shaming  the  damsels  here, 

With  nought  of  their  satin  and  silk  and  pearls, 

She — in  a  modest,  maidenly  sphere, 
They— like  the  Gwazee  girls ! 


Oh,  how  I  worshipped  you  then  and  there, 
The  mother  of  God  alone  can  tell— 

With  the  bandeau  dimming  your  starry  hair, 
And  your  hand  in  mine,  Estelle! 

[85] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Lo!  the  boreal  wind  blew  warm  and  soft, 
And  the  heavens  had  gentle  eyes  for  all— 

I  looked,  with  a  gallant  smile,  aloft, 
And  my  spirit  had  no  gall. 


My  steps  were  turned  to  the  ball  again, 
With  an  arching  front  and  a  springy  tread- 

"Oh,  she  is  an  angel  to  this  train; 
She  is  better  than  any,"  I  said. 


And  better  is  she,  sweet  child,  away 

In  that  willowy  cottage,  neat  and  white, 

For  she  is  the  darlingest  bird  of  day, 
But  these  are  the  birds  of  night. 


The  dear  God  nestles  her  eyes  in  sleep, 
And  her  visions  are  beautiful  and  serene ; 

The  dawn  has  nothing  for  her  to  weep, 
With  a  flushed,  disheveled  mien. 


And  I  swear,  as  I  murmured  things  like  these, 
And  even  the  revelry  seemed  but  good, 

I  saw,  'mid  its  giddiest  ecstacies, 
My  Violet  of  the  Wood. 

[86] 


STONE  APPLES 

Not  in  the  garb  of  the  olden  days, 
But  tricked  with  a  tinselry  of  toys — 

And  she  frowned  as  she  met  my  eager  gaze, 
And  she  smiled  o'er  the  foppish  joys. 


And  she,  high  and  haughtily,  brushed  me  by, 
To  harvest  the  spoils  of  her  fevered  bliss — 

To  drink  in  the  honeyed  laugh  and  lie, 
The  honeyed  serpent's  hiss. 


Yes !  the  boreal  wind  cut  keen  and  bleak, 
And  the  heavens  had  frosty  eyes  once  more, 

For  the  apples  I  plucked  from  the  Venus-cheek 
Were  petrified  to  the  core! 


And  I  sighed  to  my  heart:  "My  love  is  rash, 
Since  these  are  the  false  and  blasting  fruits; 

I  thrust  it  back  'mid  the  diamond's  flash, 
'Mid  the  masquerade  of  flutes" ! 


[87] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


ALTHEE 


Could  tongue  define 

In  warbling  line 
The  music  of  this  heart  of  mine, 

'Twould  sing,  today, 

A  roundelay, 
For  thee,  ma  belle  Creole  Althee! 

But  words  are  weak, 

When  words  would  speak, 
The  ripeness  of  thy  satin  cheek, 

Or  pearl  that  tips 

With  dewy  sips 
The  arches  of  those  blushing  lips. 

The  floods  of  lace 

That  flirt  and  race 
In  eddying  ripples  'round  thy  face, 

Have  framed,  I  ween, 

In  magic  mien, 
The  daintiest  image  ever  seen. 

[83] 


ALTHEE 

Ah,  sweet  Althee ! 

Around  thee  play 
The  plumed,  and  crystal  tribes  of  May; 

And  in  those  eyes 

Float,  flash,  and  rise 
Gay  atmosphere  of  orient  guise. 

The  eyes — the  eyes ! 

The  planet  eyes 
Fresh  from  their  dreams  of  Paradise ! 

My  spirit  sees, 

But  never  flees 
Their  sorcery  of  sorceries. 

Truth,  Grace,  and  Love 

From  worlds  above — 
Hints  of  the  Pure  and  Holy  Dove — 

Divinely  bright, 

These  gems  of  sight 
Are  throned  upon  their  globes  of  light. 

Thus  heaven-beguiled, 

Beloved  child, 
Have  all  the  cherubs  on  thee  smiled; 

Let  joys  depart 

Still,  sweet,  thou  art 
Voiced  in  the  virgin's  sacred  heart. 

[89] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Madonna!  fold 

Her  heart  of  gold 
In  thy  dear  arms,  when  it  is  cold; 

Madonna!  sing 

This  bird  of  Spring 
To  sleep  beneath  thy  velvet  wing ! 

Athwart  my  brain 

A  shadowy  rain 
Sobs  forth  this  desolate  refrain : 

Thy  star  is  sped, 

Thy  sunshine  fled, 
Thy  dream  is  bosomed  with  the  dead! 

Ay!  dim — dim — dim — 

My  senses  swim 
Down  by  the  lordly  river's  brim ; 

All  pagan-eyed, 

I  thrust  my  pride 
Out  on  the  mad  and  stalwart  tide. 

And  will  it  roll 

To  some  fair  goal, 
Quaffing  elixirs  of  the  soul — 

Or  witheringly 

Grope  out  to  sea 
And  drift— but  will  it  drift  to  thee? 

[90] 


ISIS 


ISIS 

My  friend,  the  young  artist,  is  clever  and  kind, 
With  a  broad  Roman  forehead  and  deep  German 
heart; 

And  though  but  a  tyro,  I  cannot  be  blind 
To  his  whimsical  skill  and  his  exquisite  art. 

I  laugh  at  his  quips,  as  I  lounge  in  his  room, 

Where  we  gin  the  grum  world  with  its  duns  and 
its  debts, 

Till  spun  by  philosophy  out  of  the  gloom, 
And  Calle  Obispo's  divine  cigarettes. 

Anon  we  play  chess,  with  the  odds  of  a  pawn, 
On  an  arabesque  baize  full  of  goblins  and  Circes; 

You  should  see  how  he  strangles  a  masculine  yawn 
As  I  gasp  out  my  last  little  spasm  of  verses. 

'Tis  the  game  of  my  life,  this  game  of  the  squares, 
For  my  Queen  of  White  Chessmen  is  coy  as  the 
stars ; 

When  a  bishop,  like  Dunstan,  snakes  up  unawares 
And  soon  there  is  nothing  but  death — or  cigars ! 

[91] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Cotillions  of  smoke  swirl  the  curtains  and  walls 
By  a  swart  old  Tertullian,  all  gnarled  and  knotty ; 

And  then  in  quadrilles,  as  it  stifles  and  crawls 
On  a  muscular  torso  by  Buonarotti. 


Here  Leviathan  gores  through  a  shock  of  harpoons- 
There,  Lazarus  mumbles  his  crust  on  the  sod — 

Afar,  in  this  carnival  dance  of  cartoons, 
Hypatia  glares  on  the  crucified  God! 


Here,  Scanderberg  gashes  the  Ottomite  van — 
There,  the  dulcimer  damsel  of  Kubla  is  heard 

Hard  by,  a  neat  sketch  of  the  crafty  old  man 
We  have  sent  to  inveigle  Napoleon  the  Third. 


There  are  foils  on  the  arras  and  shields  on  the  stair, 
While  an  arquebuse  bosses  the  lank  balustrade; 

And  trailing  just  over  that  worm-eaten  chair 
Is  a  woman's  white  dress  with  its  bodice  and  braid. 


The  visions  of  youth  are  the  wizards  of  thought, 
No  matter  how  gusty,  no  matter  how  good; 

How  many  have  married  the  woman  they  sought — 
How  seldom  we  marry  the  woman  we  should ! 

[92] 


ISIS 

I  sprang  from  the  couch,  till  I  stood  by  the  side 
Of  my  friend,  as  he  gazed  at  the  bodice  and  dress; 

"This  way,"  whispered  he,  "and  I'll  show  you  a  bride 
Not  to  wed  but  to  worship — to  sing  not  to  bless." 


Dear  God !  as  the  picture  the  painter  unsealed, 
The  curtain  was  shrivelled  away  to  a  scroll — 

I  felt  that  an  Isis  of  Eld  was  revealed, 
That  Isis  I  veiled  in  the  crypt  of  my  soul ! 


Those  pure  melting  eyes  float  that  mystical  gauze, 
Which  prophecy  weaves  on  the  sight  and  the  hair 

Of  those  that  peer  down  the  death-vistas  and  pause 
O'er  the  slab  and  the  violets  waiting  them  there. 

There's  a  fountain  of  tears  by  the  fountain  of  mirth, 
As  twilights  are  thin  'twixt  an  old  and  new  leaven ; 

And  if  not  a  paladin  hero  of  earth 

She  could  make  me  a  passionate  pilgrim  of  heaven. 

Ah,  the  glove's  on  the  mantel,  the  rose  in  the  glass, 
The  name  in  the  Bible  upon  the  blank  page, 

And  the  very  same  rosary  fingered  at  mass 
Coiled  by  the  canary  bird — dead  in  its  cage. 

[93] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

O  beautiful  child  of  a  beautiful  morn ! 

There's  a  beautiful  bodice  begemming  thy  breast, 
But  it  speaks  of  the  cerement,  that  Seraphs  have 
worn, 

And  it  tells  of  a  nightingale  slain  in  its  nest. 

And  I  gaze,  and  I  gaze,  and  I  gaze,  'till  the  moon, 
With  its  irised  aureola,  sleeps  on  her  brow — 

My  Isis !  thy  image  departed  too  soon, 
For  I  gaze  and  I  gaze  on  thy  vacancy  now. 


O  beautiful  child  of  a  beautiful  day ! 

There's  a  beautiful  song  on  thy  Sibylline  lip; 
But  it  sings  of  the  breaker  that  boils  in  the  bay, 

And  it  dirges  the  doom  of  a  desolate  ship. 


Lost — lost,  long  ago !  and  she  dreams  o'er  the  sea, 
Where  the  rude   Saxon   daisies  above  her  have 
blown ; 

I  know  that  the  angels  are  angry  with  me, 

For  the  woman  is  dead  that  my  spirit  hath  known ! 

New  Orleans,  1861. 


[94] 


COLONEL    JAMES    RYDER    RANDALL 

(IN   1882) 


FAR  OUT  AT  SEA 


FAR  OUT  AT  SEA 


Far  out  at  sea!  far  out  at  sea! 

The  winged  wind  warbles  melody; 
The  billows  fringe  their  curls  of  foam, 

And  tremble  back  with  thoughts  of  home ; 
I  stream  my  soul  on  every  crest 

That  gambles  onward  to  the  west — 
'Tis  freighted,  love,  with  hope  and  thee. 


Far  out  at  sea !  far  out  at  sea ! 

The  petrels  soar  the  surge  with  glee ; 
The  livelong  day  they  skim  the  air, 

The  livelong  night  they  slumber  there — 
Wild,  wand'ring  souls  of  those  who  sleep 

Beneath  the  coral-citied  deep, 
And  from  the  shades  heart-break  to  be 

Far  out  at  sea !  far  out  at  sea ! 

[95] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Far  out  at  sea!  far  out  at  sea! 

The  bird-like  bark  flew  merrily! 
The  day-god  slept — his  bride  on  high 

Wove  isles  of  light  o'er  wave  and  sky ; 
On,  on  we  flew,  and  from  the  wake 

What  moon-enameled  beauties  break ! 
A  vapory  veil  of  silver  bars 

Entangled  in  a  sky  of  stars — 
Supernal  visions  came  to  me 

Far  out  at  sea !  far  out  at  sea ! 


Far  out  at  sea !  far  out  at  sea ! 

The  raven  screams  upon  the  lee; 
The  storm-king  rides  the  lightning  now, 

And  wreck  and  ruin  bare  his  brow — 
A  gallant  ship,  descending  fast, 

Is  whirled  beneath  the  waters  vast, 
And  with  her  in  the  whelming  tide, 

The  loveliest  child  that  ever  died 
In  faith,  in  purity  and  pride! 
One  fair  white  arm  upon  her  breast, 

One  sunny  curl  lost  from  the  rest, 
And  there  she  lies — sweet  Melanie! 

Far  out  at  sea !  far  out  at  sea ! 

[96] 


FLOURINE 

Far  out  at  sea !  far  out  at  sea ! 

And  art  thou  happy,  Melanie? 
Oh!  in  thy  grand  and  mystic  grave 

Beneath  the  blue,  blue  tropic  wave, 
Dost  see,  sweet  child,  the  diamond  blaze 

Upon  the  Nereid  of  old  days — 
Dost  hear  the  choral  song  of  shells, 

More  musical  than  golden  bells — 

And  in  thy  ocean  jubilee 
Dost  think  of  him  who  loveth  thee? 

Far  out  at  sea !  far  out  at  sea ! 


FLOURINE 

Little  Flourine,  with  golden  hair, 
And  rose-red  cheeks  and  features  fair, 
You  shall  be  the  New  Year's  Queen, 
Little  Flourine! 

Pretty  Flourine,  with  the  bright-blue  eyes, 
Whose  tints  are  caught  from  the  azure  skies ; 
Airy,  fairy,  with  heavenly  mien, 
Pretty  Flourine! 

[97] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDEK  KANDALL 

Dainty  Flourine,  with  your  dazzling  grace, 
And  the  beautiful  wonders  of  your  face; 
May  you  have  nothing  but  roses  to  glean, 
Dainty  Flourine! 

Darling  Flourine,  may  Time  bring  to  you 
Days  full  of  music  and  skies  full  of  blue — 
Bliss  that  the  saints  and  the  angels  have  seen, 
Darling   Flourine ! 


ALEXANDRINE 

'Twas   the   morning   of   Palm    Sunday,   in   Village 

Adair, 

And  the  shy  little  chapel  seemed  jubilant  there; 
'Twas  the  morn  of  Palm   Sunday,  sad  Sunday,  I 

ween 
That  I  met  thee  and  loved  thee,  Alexandrine, 

Alexandrine ! 

I  stood  by  the  pew  that  was  nearest  to  thine, 
While  gentle  St.  Agnes,  just  over  the  shrine, 
Yearned  tenderly  to  thee,  as  if  she  had  seen, 
Thy  face  up  in  Heaven,  Alexandrine,  Alexandrine ! 

[98] 


ALEXANDRINE 

I  remember  thy  bodice,  so  snowy  and  blest, 

With  a  violet  guarding  its  virginal  nest ; 

Thy  sensitive  forehead,  thy  contour  serene, 

And  a  ripple  of  ringlets,  Alexandrine,  Alexandrine! 


We  met  in  the  aisle — how  I  think  of  it  now! 
And  meekly  I  tendered  my  sanctified  bough. 
'Twas  fondled,  thy  darling,  deft  fingers  between— 
Ah!  the  poor  bough  is  withered,  Alexandrine, 
Alexandrine ! 


And  withered  am  I  by  a  pitiless  doom, 
Like  a  blast  from  the  lungs  of  the  Demon  Simoon ; 
In  the  magical  spell  of  a  haunted  ravine, 
Dost  thou  hear  when  I  call  thee,  Alexandrine? 
Alexandrine ! 


On  my  cheek  there  is  health,  all  my  mind  is  aglow, 

But  my  soul  is  the  saddest  Sahara,  I  know ; 

For  thought  hath  not  compassed,  and  eye  hath  not 

seen 
The  kingdom  I'm  banished  from,  Alexandrine. 

Alexandrine ! 

[99] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

By  the  way  of  the  cross  gleams  thy  radiant  crown; 
By  the  way  of  the  world  all  my  dreams  have  gone 

down: 

For  thee  peace  and  mercy ;  for  me  daggers  keen, 
And  war  with  the  wehr-wolf,  Alexandrine, 

Alexandrine ! 


In  thy  saintliest  prayer  I  would  ask  to  remain, 
Though  for  me  there  be  no  resurrection  again. 
The  stars  in  their  courses  have  mocked  me,  my 

queen, 
But  I  bless  thee  forever,  Alexandrine,  Alexandrine! 


Thy  sorrows  were  many,  thy  happy  days  few ; 

Thy   tears   bowed   thee   down   like   a  rose  crushed 

with  dew; 
But  those  tears  were  too  precious  for  mortal  to 

glean, 
And  a  bride  of  the  sky  art  thou,  Alexandrine, 

Alexandrine ! 


[100] 


SPEAKING  EYES 


SPEAKING  EYES 


There  are  some  faces,  rarely  met, 

That  weave  a  weird  and  winsome  spell, 
Just  as  the  songs  we  ne'er  forget 

Of  Kubla  Khan  and  Christabel ; 
And  these — so  strange  and  fine — eclipse 

The  silken  swarm  of  rosebud  dyes— 
Though  silence  loiters  on  the  lips, 

Sad  poems  warble  with  the  eyes. 


And  such  a  face,  sweet  child,  is  thine, 

Thine  in  the  blossom  of  thy  days— 
Ah!  woe  is  me!  that  love  of  mine 

Should  nestle  in  that  magic  gaze! 
We  met  but  once,  and  'mid  my  brain 

The  flames  of  sorcery  arise — 
Oh!  should  we  ever  meet  again, 

Speak  to  me,  darling,  with  thine  eyes! 

[101] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Through  many  lands  I  sought  to  find 
Some  idol  nobler  than  the  Past; 

N'o'more  a  jpilgrim  pale  and  blind, 
r  I've  Found  thee,  loveliest,  at  last ! 

At  last,  I  scan  thy  warm,  white  brow, 
At  last,  the  Mecca  planets  rise — 

The  wizard  charm  is  on  me  now — 
Speak  to  me,  darling,  with  thine  eyes! 

And  with  thine  eyes,  beloved,  speak 

The  subtle  thought  that  keeps  me  strong, 
The  sacred  hope  that  fires  my  cheek 

In  combat  with  the  base  and  wrong. 
Better  the  everlasting  night 

Than  glittering  with  the  world's  disguise, 
But  while  the  Heaven  is  in  their  light, 

Speak  to  me,  darling,  with  thine  eyes! 

My  days  are  dark,  and  still  I  think 

To  claim  thee  in  this  globe  of  ours — 
Brimming  the  swart  Vesuvian  brink 

Volcanic  brows  are  fringed  with  flowers; 
Together,  by  eternal  meads 

That  broaden  up  to  healthier  skies, 
My  heart  shall  answer  with  its  deeds 

What  thou  art  speaking  with  thine  eyes ! 

Written  in  1863. 
[102] 


THE  GRAND  DUKE 


THE  GRAND  DUKE 

You  gave  me  flowers  in  the  crimson  eves, 

Down  by  the  garden  gate, 
Where,  on  his  throne  of  glad  geranium  leaves, 

The  Grand  Duke  sat  in  state. 

You  pitied  him — the  Grand  Duke — and  you  sent 

A  rare  and  budding  bride, 
A  lithe  and  fragrant  Duchess,  dew-be-sprent, 

Snow-bosomed  and  blue-eyed. 

Anon,  the  Grand  Duke  frowned  and  stood  apart- 

The  cold  and  bashful  churl ! 
Until  you  bound  them,  darling,  heart  to  heart, 

With  one  enamored  curl. 

Ah  me !  I  have  the  plaintive  bouquet  here, 

With  all  its  lustre  fled; 
The  lissome  bride  on  her  geranium  bier, 

And  the  dear  Grand  Duke — dead. 

And  many  sad  and  sombre  thoughts  arise 

Within  me  and  without; 
Spectres  of  flowerets  pictured  on  mine  eyes, 

Robed  in  a  shroud  of  doubt. 

[103] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Here,  in  the  hot  June  midnight,  grave  and  lone, 

By  the  dull  candle's  flare, 
I  weave  unutterable  words,  and  moan 

Over  a  woman's  hair. 

"Only  a  woman's  hair ! "  and  still  I  sob 

O'er  memory  with  her  pearls, 
Crushing  my  brows  with  anguish  till  they  throb — 

Writhing  my  soul  with  curls. 

No — no !  I  must  not  ponder  things  like  these ; 

Be  mine  a  breast  of  mail — 
Though  but  a  Nautilus  of  frenzied  seas, 

Swift — solitary — frail. 

The  world  will  know  you  not,  my  song,  for  you 

Speak  but  to  one,  and  say 
Something  I  dare  not,  to  an  eve  of  blue 

When  I  am  far  away. 

I  dare  not — for  I  flit  the  waif  of  chance, 

A  riddle  few  have  read, 
Like  the  Grand  Duke,  I've  had  my  day's  romance, 

Like  the  Grand  Duke,  am  dead. 


[104] 


MY  BONNY  KATE 


MY  BONNY  KATE! 


The  sultry  sun  with  angry  eye, 

Gleams  from  the  lurid  summer  sky, 
Through  all  the  veins  of  red  July, 

My  bonny  Kate ! 
So,  very  sad  and  very  lone, 

I  sit  beside  the  window  stone 
Musing  on  months  forever  flown, 
My  bonny  Kate ! 


This  very  day,  one  year  ago, 

I  roamed  where  Charleston  fronts  the  foe, 
And  loved,  but  did  not  tell  you  so, 

It  was  my  fate. 

But  soon  I  sought  your  eager  eyes 
And  answered  all  their  glad  surprise 
With  love  that  falters  not  nor  dies, 

My  bonny  Kate ! 

[105] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  KYDER  RANDALL 

You  must  remember  times  so  bright 

When  every  pulse  thrilled  through  with  light, 

Watching  the  sweet  morn's  silver  flight, 

My  bonny  Kate ! 

That  evening  in  the  country  town, 
The  morning  ride,  up  hill  and  down, 
The  spring,  where  Eros  won  his  crown, 

My  bonny  Kate ! 

We  parted,  'twas  the  first  sharp  pain, 

We  met  and  parted  once  again — 

It  seemed  as  though  our  love  were  vain, 

So  long  to  wait! 

I  strove  to  bring  the  world  to  bay, 
From  early  dawn  to  twilight  grey. 
The  promised  land  loomed  far  away, 

My  bonny  Kate ! 

Thus  garnered,  in  that  sacred  past, 
My  love  has  grown  superb  and  vast, 
Each  day  sublimer  than  the  last, 

My  bonny  Kate ! 

My  heart  is  full  and  yet  I  know, 
To-morrow  it  will  overflow, 
Forever  yours,  for  weal  or  woe, 

My  bonny  Kate ! 

[106] 


MY  BONNY  KATE 

Then,  darling,  think  what  pangs  assail 
Your  lover's  triple  vest  of  mail, 
Dreaming  that  even  you  might  fail, 

Your  last  year's  mate. 
Another  sits  where  you  have  been, 
With  you  another  walks  the  green 
And  tender  words  have  passed  between, 

My  bonny  Kate ! 


A  few  short  weeks,  and  I  may  be 
Dashing  along  the  hostile  sea, 
Winning  the  gold  that  ransoms  thee, 

My  bonny  Kate! 

To  God  I  yield  the  doubt — to  you 
I  give  my  solemn  troth  anew, 
My  love,  my  faithful  and  my  true— 

My  bonny  Kate! 


[107] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


ELSIE  GAY 

You  gave  me  a  geranium  leaf — 

A  little  thing  but  full  of  meaning; 
When  inclinations  half  belief, 

The  token  made  it  worth  the  gleaning. 
Last  night  your  hand  was  clasped  in  mine, 

'Twas  but  the  pressure  of  a  minute, 
And  yet,  by  some  mysterious  sign, 

A  red  rose  blushed  to  birth  within  it! 

Oh!   rather  pluck  for  me,   fair  child 

A  branch  of  cypress  or  of  willow; 
My  days  are  bleak,  my  thoughts  are  wild, 

I  am  but  sea-weed  on  the  billow. 
For  me  nor  love,  nor  home,  nor  wife 

Can  ever  be  a  curse  or  blessing — 
The  envious  riddle  of  my  life 

Would  puzzle  half  your  days  in  guessing. 

A  week — a  month — perchance  a  year, 

You  might  remember  how  you  met  me, 
And  then,  with  neither  smile  nor  tear, 

'Twill  be  so  easy  to  forget  me. 
With  you  the  world  is  frolic  May, 

With  me,  'tis  many  a  month  of  weeping — 
And  you'll  be  dancing,  Elsie  Gay 

When  I  am  in  the  valley  sleeping. 

[108] 


THE  WILLOW 


THE  WILLOW 

"Et  moi,  j'ai  aussi  £t£  en  Arcadie" 

My  parent  stem  was  nurtured  in  the  soil 
Of  St.  Helena,  near  the  grave  of  him 

Who  shook  the  world  in  many  a  battle  broil, 
And  died  a  captive  where  dark  waters  swim, 

In  that  lone  isle  of  Afric's  subtle  coil — 
A  memory  no  time  or  age  may  dim. 

Torn  from  that  ever  memorable  tree, 

I  was  borne  long  and  weary  miles  away, 

Across  a  mighty  waste  of  restless  sea, 
To  be  enrooted  in  the  honored  clay 

That  guards  the  noblest  son  of  Liberty 
Asleep,  awaiting  the  eternal  day. 

So,  after  mingling  with  heroic  dust — 
Napoleon,  Washington — I  came  at  last 

To  find  a  final  resting  place,  I  trust ; 

Where  the  Savannah's  tawny  tide  glides  past 

A  city  venerable  and  august — 

In  a  glad  garden  I  was  fondly  cast. 

[109] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

I  bravely  grew,  wooed  by  a  Southern  sun, 
A  graceful  tree,  with  opulence  of  tress. 

The  vital  sap  through  all  my  fibers  spun, 
And  dainty  damsels  gave  me  their  caress. 

A  lovely  matron  all  my  senses  won, 
And  so  I  longed  her  happy  home  to  bless. 

Anon,  the  winter  stripped  me  of  my  leaves, 
Until  I  stood  disheveled  and  forlorn; 

But  still  my  tropic  heart  clung  to  the  eaves 
Of  that  dear  household,  in  the  night  and  morn. 

Soon  the  lord  Spring,  who  blesses  and  reprieves, 
Poured  emerald  largess  o'er  my  features  shorn. 

How  have  I  thrilled  when  they  I  loved  were  gay, 
In  the  warm  sunshine  and  the  alert  breeze ! 

When  round  the  festal  board  wit  ruled  the  day 
And  wisdom  was  espoused  to  pleasantries. 

How  have  I  wished  such  happiness  could  stay, 
Unsmitten  always  with  sad  memories! 

Alas!  there  came  a  dread,  dissolving  scene 
To  snap  the  jocund  circle  of  my  friends ! 

So,  one  by  one,  they  fled  all  things  terrene, 
To  seek  the  mystic  shore  that  never  ends — 

Where  Mortal  must  on  th'  Immortal  lean, 
Where  the  true  Ideal  with  the  Real  blends. 

[110] 


THE  WILLOW 

The  reverend  grandsire  left  my  grateful  shade 
And  baby  eyes  beheld  iny  form  no  more; 

The  dazzling  lawyer  in  the  sod  was  laid ; 
The  keen  preceptor  fell,  with  all  his  lore ; 

The  brilliant  master  slumbers  in  the  glade — 
Not  lost,  but  in  due  meekness  gone  before. 

Still  lingers  my  sweet  matron,  gravely  bright, 
With   stalwart   sons   and   daughters   tall    and 
grand. 

They  stand  between  her  and  the  ghosts  who  might 
Become  a  mournful,  melancholy  band. 

I  watch  her,  when  the  hours  are  aflight, 
Her  gaze  uplifted  to  the  shining  strand! 

Perchance,  you  think  a  willow  has  no  tongue, 

No  sentient  touch,  no  article  of  speech, 
No  power  to  soothe  the  heart,  in  anguish  wrung, 

No  message  to  impart  or  moral  teach. 
But  lo!  a  poet  all  my  dreams  has  sung, 

And  who  that  sorcery  will  dare  impeach? 


[Ill] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  EYDEE  RANDALL 


ARCHITECTURE 

Gone — gone  the  spires,  and  pinnacles,  and  fanes, 
I  built  upon  the  mist-isles  of  the  past, 

Nought  but  a  hollow  Babylon  remains 
Of  all  the  bright,  adorable,  and  vast ; 

Still  I  make  miraculous  amends 

By  hewing  Meccas  from  your  hearts,  my  friends ! 

Welcome !  ye  passionate  rills  that  cleave  my  brain, 
Blest  with  ebullient  melodies  of  morn — 

While  'mid  the  plumed  battalia  of  the  cane 
Throb  the  red  sun-flags  by  encrimsoned  corn ! 

Here,  where  the  forest  with  the  field  contends, 

I'll  sculpture  immortalities,  my  friends ! 

Imperial  Heart !  that  blossomed  into  mine 
Hot  with  eleusia  of  electric  youth — 

Friend  of  my  boyhood !  a  majestic  shrine 
I  chisel  from  that  burning  heart  of  truth. 

Where  the  parched  gulls  to  velvet  waves  descend, 

Be  thou,  my  Monolith  of  Faith,  my  friend! 

[112] 


ARCHITECTURE 

Devoted  Heart!  that  bore  mine,  like  an  ark, 
Through  the  blind  deluge  of  disease  and  care, 

Giving  it  shelter  in  the  light  when  dark 
And  hideous  fortunes  throttled  with  despair — 

While  the  glad  planets  o'er  the  globe  impend, 

Be  thou  my  battlement  of  Pride,  my  friend ! 

Undaunted  Heart!  that  into  mine  hath  poured 
The  subtle  wine-blood  of  its  lusty  praise — 

A  living  bulwark,  with  its  shield  and  sword, 
When  I  had  fallen  upon  coward  days; 

O,  could  I  to  ethereal  worlds  ascend, 

Thy  Heart  should  be  my  Pantheon,  my  friend! 

Maternal  Heart !  that  charmed  mine  in  the  path 
That  glideth  to  the  splendor  of  the  Throne, 

And  soothed  it,  blistered  in  the  climes  of  wrath, 
And  kissed  it,  shud'ring  from  the  abyss  of  moan, 

The  sweet,  sweet  skies,  like  incense,  interblend 

About  the  Altar  of  thy  Heart,  my  friend! 

And  thou — who  comest  like  a  meteor-beam 
To  quell  me  in  the  zenith  of  my  pride — 

Thou — thou  who  mocketh  me  with  that  fatal  gleam 
Which  gave  me  but  the  ghost-world  for  a  bride — 

Woe!  woe!  the  palaces  I  wrought  depart, 

And  all  my  necromancy  is  a  tomb — my  Heart. 

[113] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  KYDER  RANDALL 

MARATHON 

Written  at  the  Age  of  Eighteen 

Stern  Marathon!  the  mountains  view  thee  yet; 
Thy  monarch  plain  with  dew  eternal's  wet ! 
Each  blade  of  grass  that  feathers  from  thy  green 
Bears  the  bright  impress  of  a  hallowed  mien. 
Shoot  to  the  sky  their  cloud-defiant  crest 
The  bristling  rocks,  with  climbing  vines  caressed; 
Cradle  the  King-bird  in  his  eyrie  home, 
When  down  he  darts  from  heaven's  starry  dome ; 
Stand  the  bold  sentries  of  the  holy  vast ; 
Hurl  from  their  thrones  the  thunder- throated  blast ; 
Sigh  o'er  the  graves  of  valorous  renown ; 
Then  lordly  smile  whilst  gazing  grandly  down — 
Tomb  of  the  Brave!  thy  echo  sways  the  breeze, 
Before  thy  name  all  mimic  grandeur  flees, 
Before  thy  fame  the  world  is  thrilled  with  awe, 
Time  has  no  tooth — Oblivion  rends  its  maw! 
Those  martyr  forms  whom  ages  cannot  quell 
Haunt  the  grey  sod  whereon  they  grap'ling  fell — 
Call  from  the  dust  the  Persian's  fiery  host, 
And  lo !  what  tumult  stirs  each  gibbering  ghost ! 
Thus  when  the  lurid  bolt  is  whirled  along, 
These  grim  old  foes  are  mingled  once  again: 

[114] 


MARATHON 

When  the  hoarse  thunder  bellows  from  the  sky, 
And  dusky  pinions  storm  the  cliffs  on  high; 
When  the  big  rain  conies  rattling  from  the  clouds 
Starting  the  dead  in  myriads  from  their  shrouds — 
Amid  the  clangor  of  their  dread  refrain 
These  grim  old  foes  are  mingled  once  again : 
The  dark  Platean  in  the  tide  of  war, 
The  comely  Median  in  his  battered  car, 
The  bright  Athenian  dealing  death  and  fear, 
The  Persian  tottering  on  his  shivered  spear— 
The  cloven  helmet  and  the  ghastly  blow, 
The  crimson  scimetar,  the  stringless  bow — 
They  smite  their  shields,  they  form,  prepare,  ad 
vance  : 
Sword    splinters    sword,    lance    crashes    against 

lance — 

Away!  the  golden  lamp  swings  forth  once  more 
And  all  is  mute  upon  that  dreamy  shore ! 

The  living  hills  are  marble  for  the  dead, 

Their  burial  ground  is  where  they  fought  and  bled, 

Their  epitaph  is  centred  in  a  breath— 

"The  dying  freeman  yields  not  quite  to  death !  " 

Their  deeds  are  chanted  by  the  choral  surge, 

That  holiest  Harper  of  undying  dirge! 

Each  frolic  wave  that  pillows  on  the  plain 

Murmurs  a  praise  sur passing  mortal  strain, 

For  those  who  perished  there — but  not  in  vain ! 

[115] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


ODE  TO  PROFESSOR  DIMITRY 


Suggested  by  his  admirable  lecture  on  the  "Temples  and 
Monuments  of  Greece" 
Written  at  Georgetown  University  at  the  Age  of  Eighteen 


Behold  the  man !    What  matchless  lines  of  grace 
Are  blazoned  round  his  great,  expressive  face! 
The  voice  so  full,  so  tremulously  grand 
Speaks  from  his  heart  the  woes  of  that  far  land, 
Which  fallen  now,  once  reigned  the  titled  Queen 
Of  Mind,  of  Soul — all-seeing  and  all-seen — 
Nurse  of  the  Gods !  bright  Liberty's  abode ! 
The  Poet's  pride!  whence  Homer's  song  has  flowed, 
Rolling  with  ocean-flow  from  age  to  age — 
The  first— the  last — the  best  on  History's  page! 
Foremost  in  Art,  in  Science,  and  in  Strife, 
In  columned  grandeur  and  in  marble  life — 
Bend,  bend  before  Hellenic  tow'ring  might 
Ye  gifted  children  of  the  Pure  and  Bright! 
All  this  and  more  thrills  forth — how  silent  all ! 
The  burning  echo  riots  round  the  hall, 

[116] 


ODE  TO  PROFESSOR  DIMITRY 

In  every  breast  responsive  echoes  breathe, 
The  ravished  senses  twine  a  deathless  wreath 
For    those    who    fought    for    Freedom,    scorning 

shame, 

Then  bartered  life  for  an  eternal  fame! 
Thus,  not  in  vain,  he  courts  the  willing  ear — 
Calls  on  the  dead,  and  living  forms  appear; 
Both  gods  and  men  in  awful  grandeur  move — 
The    "Blind    old    Bard"— the    "Cloud-compelling 

Jove ! " 

He  bids  them  tell  of  days  when  Greece  was  free, 
When  Athens  rode  triumphant  o'er  the  sea, 
Athens  the  peerless — prescient — the  blind — 
Athens  the  mutable — the  undefined! 
The  fount  of  Eloquence !  whose  spring  inspired 
Her  godlike  son,  and  with  his  breath  expired; 
Which  in  one  warning  yet  majestic  cry 
Made  Philip  quail  and  cowards  gladly  die! 
When  Sparta  stalked  the  Lioness  of  the  shore 
With    iron    nerves — brute    heart — what,    nothing 

more? 

Ay!  ay!  a  single  boon  kind  Nature  gave, 
Alone  to  drag  her  from  Oblivion's  grave; 
One  hoary  rock,  the  Keystone  of  the  plain — 
A  shivered  altar  but  a  hallowed  fane, 
For  patriot's  blood  has  trickled  round  the  stone — 
Dread  august  sacrifice !  this — this  alone 

[117] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Redeems  the  land  with  a  renewing  birth, 
Its  faults  forgotten  in  thy  faultless  worth ! 
Manes  of  the  brave !  your  gore's  not  vainly  shed — 
O  stern  baptism  on  a  nation's  head! 
Yet  did  that  blood  quench  Persia's  fiery  pride 
And  seal  the  spot  where  heroes  fell — not  died, 
Leaving  thy  name  a  watchword  to  the  free — 
Unmouldering  Record!  lone  Thermopylae! 
Turn  from  this  scene.    Exulting  to  the  skies 
A  temple  flits  before  the  captive  eyes, 
Unrivalled,  chaste  e'en  as  the  new-born  day, 
In  perfect  form  it  looms  along  the  way — 
Unrivalled  whole — unrivalled  in  decay! 
Behold  the  Parthenon — the  miracle — the  fair ! 
Look  once  again.    What  ruin  breedeth  there! 
A  pilfered  wreck,  a  desecrated  shrine, 
Sport  of  the  blast,  polluted  yet  divine — 
The  mind  untouched  from  a  dismembered  whole — 
How  glorious  yet,  thou  Mecca  of  the  Soul ! 


[118] 


HA!  HA! 


HA!    HA! 

When  summer  suns  are  glancing  on  the  merry  dam 
sels  dancing 
'Neath  the  pendulous  aroma  of  the  beauty-blushing 

vine; 
When  summer  birds  are  cooing,  in  a  pantomimic 

wooing 

'Mid  the  azure-dimpled  ether,  which  the  poet  calls 
divine : 

I  win  a  frolic  girl, 
From  the  rustle  and  the  whirl, 

And  I  say  she  is  a  seraph  and  I  swear  she  is  a  pearl— 
Ha!  Ha! 
Ha!  Ha! 

Who  is  gentler,  who  is  fairer,  ha !  ha !  who  is  sweeter, 

Who  is  brighter,  ha !  ha !  who  is  wittier  and  neater, 

Than  the  queen  of  my  spirit — its  glorified  defeater — 

Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Malgherita!  Malgherita! 

Ha !  gaily  we  are  flying,  with  laughter,  love  and  sigh 
ing, 
O'er  the  valley  of  Berilla,  in  its  livery  of  green ! 

Ha!  madly  we  are  dashing  by  the  torrent  thunder- 
flashing, 

[119] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

And  beyond  the  echo-flutter  of  the  flute  and  violin. 
Little  fairy,  little  fay, 
From  the  torrent  keep  away, 

Or  thy  roses  and  thy  ribbons  will  be  waltzing  in  the 
spray, 

Ha!  Ha! 

Ha!  Ha! 

Who   is   gentler,   who   is   fairer — ha!    ha!   who   is 

sweeter ; 

Who  is  brighter,  ha!  ha!  who  is  wittier  and  neater, 

Than  the  queen  of  my  spirit — its  glorified  defeater — 

Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Malgherita!  Malgherita! 


In  the  twinkle  of  a  minute,  she  wildly  pours  within  it 

The  glory  of  her  tresses  like  a  vivid  golden  veil ; 
In  a  second  of  derision,  she  forgetteth  her  precision, 
And  is  captured  by  the  current  as  it  dashes  to  the 
vale. 

I  shoot  beneath  the  flood 

All  the  lightning  of  my  blood — 

I  reach  her  and  I  save  her  and  I  bear  her  to  the  wood. 

Ha!  Ha! 

Ha!  Ha! 

Who   is   gentler,   who   is   fairer — ha!   ha!   who   is 
sweeter; 

[120] 


HA!  HA! 


Who  is  brighter,  ha!  ha!  who  is  wittier  and  neater, 

Than  the  queen  of  my  spirit — its  glorified  defeater — 

Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Malgherita!  Malgherita! 


You  may  fancy  that  the  fountain,  baffled  billow  of 

the  mountain, 
Is  singing  you  this  secret  as  it  crashes  grandly 

down; 

"What  beatitude  completer,  he  is  wed  to  Malgherita, 
And  they  emulate  the  angels  'neath  the  summer's 
burning  crown !" 

We  are  wed !  we  are  wed ! 
As  Khuleborn  hath  said, 

And  we  envy  not  the  annals  of  the  living  or  the  dead. 

Ha!  Ha! 

Ha!  Ha! 

Who   is   gentler,   who   is   fairer — ha!    ha!    who    is 

sweeter ; 

Who  is  brighter,  ha!  ha!  who  is  wittier  and  neater, 

Than  the  queen  of  my  spirit — its  glorified  defeater — 

Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Malgherita!  Malgherita! 


[121] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


SARCASTIC 


Loud  sir,  I  am 

— Myself  o'er  thrown 
By  your  tremendous  racket; 

But  let  us  see 

In  what  degree 
That  you  and  I  most  lack  it. 


A  wise  old  saw 

Hath  made  it  law — 
(Now  all  your  ears  displaying) 

That  lions  quell 

Their  roar  a  spell, 
When  jackasses  are  a-braying. 


[122] 


MADAME  LA  GRIPPE 


MADAME  LA  GRIPPE 


Where  the  seas  meet  the  land,  and  the  land  quits  the 

seas, 

The  universe  shakes  with  a  terrible  sneeze, 
The  Czar  in  his  palace,  the  serf  in  his  hut, 
Explode  all  alike  when  the  nostril  is  shut, 
The  saint's  holy  person  is  no  more  exempt 
Than  the  sinner  whom  Satan  refuses  to  tempt. 
The  pest  of  the  air  takes  a  world-waking  trip, 
And   its   banners   are   blazoned:      "Beware   of   La 

Grippe." 

We  heard  of  it  first  where  Peter  the  Great 
Made  the  marsh  of  the  Neva  the  heart  of  his  State. 
It  crumpled  the  Cossack,  and  then,  in  the  morn, 
Crossed  the  Balkan  and  captured  the  fair  Golden 

Horn. 

The  Sultan  dropped  down  with  a  bigness  of  head 
That  made  his  whole  harem  afraid  of  the  dead, 
For  a  microbic  Skobeleff  rushed  with  a  skip 
And  held  old  Byzantium  fast  in  his  grip. 

[123] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

From  the  dome  of  Sophia  to  Stephen's  tall  spire 
It  swept  in  its  fury  and  coughed  in  its  ire. 
The  Kaiser  succumbed  before  set  of  sun 
And  cried :    "Better  far  Kossuth  or  the  Hun !" 
But  the  Hun  was  himself  loaded  up  with  quinine, 
While  Bismarck  felt  humbled  at  Canossa's  shrine, 
For  the  head  of  the  haughty  takes  a  cyclonic  dip 
When  it  feels  the  congestion  of  Madame  La  Grippe! 

The  Berlin  professors  went  down  in  despair 

And  their  scholars  tore  Greek,  by  the  roots,  from 

their  hair, 

The  Titans  who  humbled  the  nations  are  weak, 
While  their  battle-cry  sinks  to  a  sad  nasal  squeak. 
The  Emperor  William  grows  weary  of  beer, 
And  wiltedly  "ambles  away  on  his  ear." 
The  White  Lady  scare  and  the  pale  Phantom  Ship 
Are  nothing  in  horror  like  Madame  La  Orippe! 

It  tweaked  the  Republic  of  France  by  the  nose, 
And  a  new  reign  of  terror  insistently  rose. 
The  dust  of  Napoleon  quivered  perhaps 
With  the  cruel,  catarrhal,  convulsive  collapse. 
The  Socialist  demon  declined  to  conspire, 
For  his  backbone  was  seared  by  St.  Anthony's  fire. 
The  sirens  who  smile  to  beguile  on  the  road 
Felt  their  jewels  a  curse,  like  the  head  of  a  toad, 

[124] 


MADAME  LA  GRIPPE 

And  the  doctor  alone,  who  is  sure  of  his  tip, 
Stood  firm  in  the  presence  of  Madame  La  Grippe! 

Zigzagging  along  the  Baltic's  bleak  strand, 
It  crossed  the  grim  channel  to  sturdy  England. 
The  eloquent  Gladstone  lost  power  of  speech 
And  Salisbury  took  to  his  bed  with  a  screech. 
The  Queen  drank  hot  toddy  of  fine  Irish  make, 
And  dreamed  that  Parnell  was  attending  her  wake 
With  ;i  dark,  scowling  visage  and  sinister  lip, 
Disguised  in  the  raiment  of  Madame  La  Grippe! 

Astride  of  the  cable,  by  British  emprise, 

It  shot  to  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  wise. 

The  Bostonese  stomach  disdained  pork  and  beans, 

And  lived  on  a  diet  of  antipyrines. 

New  York  heard  the  figure  of  Liberty  whoop 

Like  a  child  in  the  robust  embrace  of  the  croup. 

Mr.  Chauncey  Depew  wrote  funeral  verse 

While  the  Negro  Problem  passed  by  in  a  hearse. 

The  scissors  were  dropped  from  Coupon's  keen  clip 

As  Wall  Street  went  mad  in  the  waltz  of  La  Grippe! 

On  the  wings  of  a  blizzard,  it  flew  to  the  West, 
With  a  wild  and  a  woolly  rheumatic  behest. 
Chicago  surrendered  at  once  the  World's  Fair 
And  took  a  first  prize  in  the  Prince  of  the  Air. 

[125] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDEE  RANDALL 

Mr.  Ingall's  trumpet  made  all  Kansas  wheeze 
As  Washington  answered  his  cynical  sneeze. 
The  big  bulk  of  Barnes  was  a  rampart  of  might, 
But  it  sunk  at  the  shock  of  this  malefic  sprite. 
East  and  West,  West  and  East,  with  a  roar  and  a  rip, 
Crashed   the   thunderous    footfall    of   Madame   La 
Grippe! 

You  may  hear  that  this  imp  is  a  myth  at  the  South, 

But  this  is  a  pleasant  romance  of  the  mouth. 

By  the  river  St.  John,  at  a  place  they  call  Jax, 

This  writer  first  felt  the  prelude  of  attacks. 

Very  mild  was  the  touch,  but  as  he  fared  forth, 

A  little  more  near  to  the  stars  of  the  North, 

It  kicked  and  it  cuffed  and  it  swirled  him  about 

Until  he  resembled  a  famous  dish-clout. 

And  now,  as  he  takes  his  medicinal  nip, 

He  bows  out,  most  humbly,  this  Madame  La  Grippe! 

The  moral,  perchance,  is  not  proper  to  hide, 
It  levels  at  once  our  poor  human  pride. 
We  are  all  in  the  clutch  of  invisible  foes, 
And  the  elements  fill  us  with  blessings  and  woes. 
We  have  brotherhood  bonds  to  pay  at  our  ease, 
In  all  the  vast  circle  of  health  and  disease. 
We  are  saved  by  the  self-same  Omnipotent  Power, 
While  none  is  too  poor  to  escape  from  its  dower ; 
And  little  it  matters,  whatever  may  slip, 
So  God's  buckler  shield  us  from  Satanic  grip ! 
[126] 


SILHOUETTE 


SILHOUETTE 


Ladies  and  gallants,  well  a  day ! 
If  ride  ye  must,  and  will  not  stay, 
Ah,  do  not  ride  in  midmost  May ! 

Lassie !  be  sure  to  take  your  brother ; 
Laddie !  go  not  without  grandmother ; 
Lassie  and  laddie,  take  no  other! 

For  I  have  been  the  dupe  of  blisses — 

My  malison  on  blonden  Misses, 

With  cherry  months  lip-full  with  kisses; 

And  jaunty  hats  with  ribboned  bows, 
And  beaded  basques  and — heaven  knows 
What  gilded  pitfalls  full  of  woes! 

Dear  little  bread  and  butter  chit, 

You  jilted  me  I  must  admit — 

And  split  my  heart — the  deuce  a  bit ! 

[127] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

I  swore  the  jewel  of  Glamschid 

Than  you  less  excellency  hid ; 

You  thought  so  too — you  know  you  did. 

And  yet  you  made  a  famous  fool 
Of  one  a  lastrum  since  from  school ; 
I'm  on  the  penitential  stool. 

With  groan  and  grimace  acrimonious, 
I  vote  all  flirting  most  erroneous, 
And  bivouac  with  Saint  Antonius, 

Old  Nick  shall  thump  me  black  and  blue, 
And  with  his  horned  head  punch  me  through, 
Ere  I  succumb  to  jays  like  you. 

I'll  make  the  calaboose  my  bunk, 
I'll  delve  in  some  monastic  trunk; 
'Twere  highly  proper  to  get  drunk ! 

I'll  sing  Am  Rhein  in  the  Casino — 

Become  obstreperous  with  Blineau; 

In  divers  ways  I'll  breeze  my  spleen,  oh ! 

Lycanthropy  to  me  is  placid ; 

I'll  out-strut  e'en  Haroun  Alraschid — 

Read  Werter,  too,  for  prussic  acid. 

[128] 


SILHOUETTE 

I'll  button-hole  old  Villabobia, 
Prating  of  bonnets  and  Zenobia— 
Bombastes  B  and  hydrophobia. 

Of  Fremont — Brutus  (Junius  Lucius)  — 
Seward — Scaezola  (baptized  Mutius)  — 
Of  Mother  Goose  and  Kean  Confucius. 

All  womankind  shall  learn  to  rue  it; 
I'll  drench  my  locks  with  mutton  suet, 
And  guard  the  corners — young  men  do  it! 

Upon  reflection,  I  will  not 
Become  an  interesting  sot, 
And  sprout  a  nasal  apricot ! 

Philosophy  shall  be  obeyed; 

I'll  puff  my  meerschaum  in  the  shade, 

And  live  to  see  you  an  old  maid! 

A  starch  old  maid  with  snuff  and  chat. 
With  crippled  curls  and — think  of  that — 
A  fusty  parrot  and — a  cat ! 

Alack!  and  what  shall  I  be  then? 
Perchance  a  Bedouin  with  men — 
Perchance  a  starved  wolf  in  my  den. 

[129] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDEE  RANDALL 

No — no !  I  can  not  hate  you  yet, 
While  many  a  treasured  amulet 
Of  lang  syne  dares  me  to  forgot ! 

I  have  your  tiny  gloves  hard  by ; 
You  gave  them  to  me  with  a  sigh — 
They're  torn  and  faded — so  am  I. 

I  banquet  on  them  with  my  looks, 
I  haunt  the  meadow — tangled  brooks, 
And  sift  dried  jasmins  from  my  books. 

And  brooding  o'er  them  wrath  is  felled ; 
I  only  see  the  hands  they  held, 
Becking  me  ever  back  to  Eld ! 

Yes — yes !  I  do  forgive  the  Past ; 
And  though  your  stars  be  overcast, 
I'll  deem  you  loveliest  to  the  last. 

But  I  shall  ride  no  more  away, 

In  kingly  cavalier  array, 

In  midmost  love — in  midmost  May ! 


[130] 


MAGDALEN 

MAGDALEN 

The  Hebrew  girl,  with  flaming  brow, 

The  banner-blush  of  shame, 
Sinks  at  the  sinless  Saviour's  knees 

And  dares  to  breathe  His  name. 
From  the  full  fountain  of  her  eyes 

The  lava-globes  are  roll'd— 
They  wash  his  feet ;  she  spurns  them  off 

With  her  ringlet-scarf  of  gold. 

The  Meek  One  feels  the  eloquence 

Of  agonizing  prayer, 
The  burning  tears,  the  suppliant  face, 

The  penitential  hair; 
And  when,  to  crown  her  brimming  woe, 

The  ointment  box  is  riven — 
"Rise,  daughter,  rise !  Much  hast  thou  loved, 

Be  all  thy  sins  forgiven !" 

Dear  God !  The  prayers  of  good  and  pure, 

The  canticles  of  light, 
Enrobe  Thy  throne  with  gorgeous  skies, 

As  incense  in  Thy  sight; 
May  the  shivered  vase  of  Magdalen 

Soothe  many  an  outcast's  smart, 
Teaching  what  fragrant  pleas  may  spring 

From  out  a  broken  heart! 

[131] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

KEATS 

"Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  on  water" 

Beyond  the  wall  that  belts  the  town, 
Where  grand  Saint  Peter's  titan  crown 
Looks  apostolically  down ; 

With  shrunken  form  and  shrouded  lid, 
The  Song  Bird — not  the  Song — is  hid 
Near  Caius  Cestius'  pyramid. 

There  purer  from  his  Roman  pyre, 
The  star-eyed  Skylark  of  the  Choir,* 
Slumbers,  a  radiant  Child  of  Fire ! 

Twin  bards — twin  death !  no  slander  parts, 
With  livid  tongue  and  venomed  darts, 
The  Soul  of  Souls  and  "Heart  of  Hearts." 

The  coheirs  of  Porphyrogene, 
Their  dreams  are  royal  and  serene 
Beneath  the  Night's  sweet  sybil  queen. 

*Shelley. 

[132] 


KEATS 

Methinks,  their  sad  song  sadly  calls 
From  every  breeze  that  swells  and  falls 
Along  the  Coliseum's  halls. 

And  that  sad  song  shall  murmur  there, 

Upon  the  pulses  of  the  air, 

With  incense-wings  of  warbled  prayer. 

And  it  shall  sigh  and  fondly  flit 

When  dome  and  tomb  are  bright  moonlit, 

O'er  him  whose  name  was  water-writ. 

'Twas  writ  on  water,  but  the  wave 
That  surges  from  a  hallowed  grave 
Is  not  old  Ocean's  liquid  slave. 

'Tis  the  tumultuous  Sea  of  Song — 
The  Scroll  of  the  Anointed  Throng 
To  whom  eternities  belong ! 

Thy  name,  dear  Keats,  had  water-birth, 
And  now,  in  its  majestic  worth, 
It  heaves  its  billow*  over  earth ! 


[133] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


PALINODIA 


Though  it  leave  me  ashes,  I  will  thrust 

This  Etna  from  my  breast, 
My  times  have  been  tumultuous,  they  shall  know 
The  ecstacy  of  rest. 

They  marred  the  work  of  heaven  when  they  scoff'd 

My  unpolluted  truth— 
Oh,  it  was  death  to  feel  the  venom-dews 

Trickling  the  veins  of  youth ! 

My  mind  was  swung  in  blindness,  like  a  cloud, 

O'er  caverns  of  despair; 
My  soul  was  a  dead  Carthage,  with  a  doomed 

And  baffled  Roman  there. 

Stung  by  the  blare  and  trespass  of  the  world, 

I  cursed  it,  on  my  knees, 
Where,  in  its  cell,  monastic  Amazon 

Hymns  to  the  cloistered  trees. 

[134] 


PALINODIA 

I  wrestled  with  iny  soul  when  twilight  fowls 

Began  their  rigadoon, 
Where  the  lost  cypress,  like  Ophelia,  mourns 

Above  the  gaunt  lagoon. 


Dumb  with  disaster,  we  did  grapple  on, 

Like  Ghibbeline  and  Guelph ; 
Though  I  could  flee  all  other  things  beside, 

I  could  not  flee — myself. 


Yes!  I  have  pillaged  the  forbidden  boughs 

Of  all  their  stealthy  lore ; 
The  fruit  that  shed  its  dust  upon  my  lips 

Was  from  Gomorrha's  shore. 


Love !  I  will  cleanse  those  lips  at  Siloe's  pool, 

Incumbent  to  the  sod; 
I  look  upon  my  Past,  as  Pagan's  look 

Upon  their  cloven  god. 


Love  !  will  kneel  at  holier  knees  again, 

With  sin-abashing  brow, 
And  learn  a  new  Philosophy  from  Faith 

To  save  me  from  the  slough. 

[135] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Love !  it  was  thy  meek  eyes  and  gentle  words 

That  gave  my  spirit  sight, 
And  it  will  follow  thee  to  higher  laws 

Through  the  dim  Vale  of  Night. 


MALISON 


I  promised  no  reproach,  Elise, 

Though  all  thy  flimsy  vows  were  fickle; 

My  slender-necked  anemones 

Have  perished  by  thy  crafty  sickle ; 

Well !  let  them  go,  though  soiled  and  stolen, 

And  headless,  too,  as  Anna  Boleyn — 

Ay,  let  them  go,  though  debonnair 

With  hazel,  poppy-perfumed  hair. 

I'll  not  reproach,  Elise,  but  I 

Will  make  my  malediction  lie 

Upon  thee,  feathery  as  a  sigh ; 

Till  from  abysmal  peaks  of  woe 

My  curse  shall  shroud  thee  with  its  snow ; 

[136] 


MALISON 

Softly  upon  the  forehead  fair, 

Crisping  the  poppy-perfumed  hair, 

Its  winnowing  ice-birds  lilt  and  go, — 

But  no  reproach,  Elise,  oh  no — 

Only  the  rustle  of  the  snow ! 

'Twill  skim  thy  throat  not  rude  or  redly — 

Its  dapper  feet, 

Slippered  with  sleet, 
Shall  into  thy  bonnet  and  bossom  retreat 

With  a  stinging  like  snow, 

Which  is  woe — 
Only  my  curse,  my  curse  you  know ! 

Not  rude  or  redly— 

Nothing  but  snow ! 

As  shy — as  smooth — as  cool — as  slow- 
As  deadly. 


[137] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


CLAY 

Written   on   the  occasion   of   the   unveiling   of  the   Clay 
Statue,  April  12th,  1860 

Immortal  Mind !  thy  burning  torch 

A  deathless  halo  flings 
Around  the  Prophets  crucified, 

And  Sybaritic  Kings; 
We  chaunt,  today,  a  paean  song 

To  thy  divinest  flashes — 
To  our  imperishable  one, 

The  Mill  Boy  of  the  Slashes ! 

The  fervid  breast  of  Nature  poured 

Its  deluge  to  his  sips, 
The  bee-winged  breezes  charmed  anew 

Hymettus  to  his  lips, 
Till,  like  a  cleaving  peak,  his  thoughts 

To  sunward  regions  ran, 
And  god  beheld  beneath  his  throne 

A  mountain  hearted  Man. 


[138] 


CLAY 

His  lispings  fell  like  vesper  dews 

Upon  the  alien  leaves, 
Waking  their  inspirations  through 

The  palpitating  sheaves ; 
Then  from  those  clarion  "wood-notes  wild" 

Anointed  dreams  unsprung, 
Wedding  the  lightning  of  the  brain 

To  the  thunder  of  the  tongue ! 

We — we  have  seen  him  in  the  pride 

Of  his  colossal  youth, 
We — we  have  heard  his  Vestal  vows 

To  the  Eternal  Truth ; 
We — we  have  felt  our  spirits  quail, 

Our  very  beings  bow, 
When  the  supernal  tempests  shook 

That  monumental  brow ! 

And  never  yet,  since  morning  stars 

Sang  over  Galilee, 
Have  nations  seen  the  peer  of  this 

Apostle  of  the  free ! 
His  was  the  avalanche  of  wrath 

That  smites  the  despot  down, 
And  girds  the  brows  of  Justice  with 

An  undisheveled  crown. 

[139] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDEK  KANDALL 

His  trumpet-tones  re-echoed  like 

Evangels  to  the  free, 
Where  Chimborazo  views  a  world 

Mosaic'd  in  the  sea; 
And  his  proud  form  shall  stand  erect 

In  that  triumphal  car 
Which  bears  to  the  Valhalla  gates 

Heroic  Bolivar! 


He  spoke  for  Greece,  and  freedom  flew 

Along  her  sacred  rills, 
Waking  the  mighty  soul  that  slept 

On  Marathinian  hills ; 
While  bold  Buzzards  launched  his  flag 

Upon  the  gull  of  night, 
And  hurled  a  living  thunderbolt 

Against  the  Ottomite! 

The  pillars  of  the  Union  quaked 

Before  discordant  shocks, 
When  Heaven  had  sent  its  liberal  snows 

Upon  his  honored  locks ; 
Though  all  the  Angels  beckoned  him, 

His  conquering  arm  uprose, 
And  wrenched  his  country's  flag  away 

From  its  rebellious  foes. 

[140] 


CLAY 

Then  with  perennial  laurel  wreaths, 

The  matchless  mind  had  wrought, 
His  ladened  bark  went  drifting  on 

To  find  the  "Kings  of  Thought;" 
And  though  the  stately  vessel  long 

Hath  left  its  earthly  strand, 
The  helmsman's  voice  re-echoes  back 

From  out  the  Phantom  Land. 


Live,  Patriot,  live !  while  oceans  chafe 

Their  adamantine  bars- 
While  mailed  Orion  flames  his  plume 

'Mid  bright-battaiioned  stars; 
Live,  Patriot,  live !  while  glory  thrills 

The  heart-strings  of  the  free, 
And  Mississippi  pours  its  grand 

Libations  to  the  sea ! 


[141] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  EYDER  RANDALL 


THE  UNBOUGHT  SEMINOLE 

After  the  defection  of  many  of  the  Seminole  chiefs  in  1857, 
Arpeik  was  approached  by  the  United  States  Commissioners, 
and  tendered  money  and  lands  if  he  would  cease  hostilities 
and  consent  to  deportation.  Though  not  less  than  one  hundred 
and  fourteen  years  old,  blind  and  decrepit,  his  intellect  sur 
vived  the  wreck  of  the  body  and  his  soul  retained  its  ancient 
heat.  His  reply  was  worthy  of  any  age:  "Wagon  loads 
of  gold  shall  never  buy  me!"  A  few  months  afterward,  he 
died  and  was  buried  among  the  Thousand  Islands  in  a 
remote  corner  of  the  land  which  gave  him  birth,  which  he 
had  fought  to  possess  and  which  he  never  relinguished 
utterly. 

An  old,  old  man,  in  thicker  shades 
Than  brood  upon  the  brows  of  Night, 

Hath  lit  the  ghastly  Everglades 
With  an  imperishable  light; 

A  light  more  brilliant  in  its  flame 

From  the  dusk  soul  from  whence  it  came, 

Amid  the  war-cloud's  clashing  fame — 

rut] 


THE  UNBOUGHT  SEMINOLE 

It  burns !  it  blazes !  let  it  be 

A  globe-mark  for  the  bold  and  free 
To  beacon  on  Eternity. 

Ay,  let  it  flash  its  halo  high- 
Flash  like  a  meteor  in  the  sky 

With  lightning  flame 
To  carve  a  name 

That  cannot,  will  not  quickly  die ! 


No  subtle  tribute  of  the  mine 

Could  quell  that  hero-heart  of  thine; 
Not  the  ripe  wilderness  of  gold 

Through  which  Pactolian  tides  have  roll'd; 
Not  the  star-gem  that  grandly  flings 

Its  flambeau  by  barbaric  kings ; 
No  traitor's  breath,  no  hostile  band, 

Not  Power's  all-pervading  hand 
Could  wrench  thee  from  thy  native  land. 

The  lone  wolf  from  his  lair 
May  find  a  shelter  from  despair — 

Man  of  the  weary-foot,  for  thee 
No  refuge  held  the  land  or  sea — 

Death,  death  alone  could  set  thee  free — 
And,  more  than  free,  since  thus  it  came 

Girt  with  the  glory-wings  of  fame. 


[143] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

O,  wildwood  Spartan  of  thy  time! 

O  more  than  Roman  in  thy  crime, 
Love  for  thine  own  beloved  clime. 

Dear  God !  what  segment  of  the  earth 
Can  match  the  region  of  our  birth ! 

Though  ice-beleagured,  rill  on  pill, 
Though  scorched  to  deserts,  hill  on  hill — 

It  is  our  native  country  still. 
Our  native  country,  what  a  sound 

To  make  heart,  brain,  and  blood  rebound! 
Our  native  country!  bannered  far 

On  eagle  wings,  with  cross  and  star; 
Diviner  than  the  hymns  of  glee 

That  flood  Astarte-eyed  Chaldee, 
It  frets  the  war  flag  on  the  deep, 

It  makes  the  bale-fire  on  the  steep, 
It  stirs  a  thought  that  cannot  sleep. 


It  arsenals  the  fleetest  arm 

With  the  keen  weapons  of  alarm, 
And  sends  them  shimmering  forth  amain 

To  smite  and  smite  and  smite  again. 
It  boomed  a  grand,  cathedral  bell 

Along  the  crags  to  Bruce  and  Tell ; 
It  rang  like  cymbals  on  the  breeze 

To  Henry  and  Demosthenes; 

[144] 


THE  U^BOUGHT  SEMINOLE 

It  pealed,  like  trumpets  in  the  fray 

That  canonized  Thermopylae; 
It  wailed  o'er  Warren,  sad  and  shrill, 

In  the  hot  crash  of  Bunker  Hill ; 
It  wept  wild  music  o'er  the  dart 

That  burst  from  Osceola's  heart, 
And  still  fares  forth,  a  choral  wave 

Upon  the  never-dying  brave. 
Such,  such  the  heavenly-gardened  seed 

That  flowers  each  immortal  deed. 


Such,  such  the  spirit  of  the  past 

That  nobly  battles  to  the  last, 
And  such  the  sunbeam  of  thy  soul, 

Grim  Brutus  of  the  Seminole! 
And  I — though  pale-faced  and  thy  foe, 

Can  laud  thy  joy  and  feel  thy  woe ; 
Would  that  a  Homer's  magic  lyre, 

His  Sybil  lip,  his  tongue  of  fire, 
Were  mine  but  one  great  moment — then, 

Statued  with  monumental  men, 
Thy  ghostly  form,  rapt  in  renown, 

Should  stand  with  helmet,  sword,  and  crown- 

And  who  would  dare  to  drag  it  down? 


[145] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

From  the  throned  summit  of  the  Thousand  Islands 

Meek  virgins  of  the  sea; 
Along  their  diadem  of  emerald  highlands, 

The  death-song  sobs  for  thee. 


The  gay  magnolia  musky-haired  and  tender, 

Queen-dryad  of  the  scene, 
Snares,  in  its  veil  of  flower-floating  splendor, 

Winged  linguist  of  the  green. 


The  bright-plumed  cedar  trails  its  daintiest  pillow 

For  nectar-laden  bees; 
Kneels,  by  the  lake,  the  tress-disheveled  willow, 

Lone  Magdalen  of  trees! 


The  knightly  oak,  a  bulwark  swart  and  brawny, 

Stands  by  its  page  the  vine; 
Or  hangs  its  large,  storm-gullied,  cleft,  and  tawny, 

Upon  its  spear,  the  pine. 


A  dreamy  fleck  of  violet  creations 

Stare  at  the  anchored  clouds, 
Or  shrink  to  see  the  spectral  cypress  nations 

Rise  glittering  through  their  shrouds. 

[146] 


THE  UNBOUGHT  SEMINOLE 

Beneath  the  turban  of  a  tall  palmetto, 

Thy  scattered  warriors  kneel, 
Grim  pilgrims  at  their  gallant  heart's  Loretto, 

With  votive  bead  and  steel. 


Upon  their  hearts,  broad  bucklers  of  alliance, 

The  scars  are  greenly  dim'd— 
Dread  gaps,  dread  syllables  of  fierce  defiance 

Upon  the  tiger-limbed. 

Apart  from  all,  of  all  the  goodliest  number 

Are  widowed  ones,  alas! 
In  vain,  in  vain  ye  watch  for  those  who  slumber 

In  lagoon  and  morass. 

A  giant  mound,  with  untold  ages  hoary 

Outspiraling  the  strand, 
Bears  thee,  great  chieftain,  like  a  steed  of  glory,, 

Upon  the  spirit-land. 

From  the  grey  summit  of  Time's  stateliest  moun 
tain, 

Age,  throned  amid  the  rocks, 
Had  shot  the  avalanche  of  a  thousand  fountains 

In  silver  down  thy  locks. 

[147] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  EYDEE  RANDALL 

But  now,  but  now,  thy  earthliness  departed, 

De  Leon's  fount  is  won ; 
And  all  the  dead  who  left  thee,  broken  hearted, 

Outgleam  the  primal  sun. 

There  Micanopy,  with  his  plumes  vermilion, 

Stalks  by  the  glittering  ring, 
There  Tustenuggee,  'neath  a  rich  pavilion, 

Ay  "every  inch  a  King !  " 


There  Osceola,  warlike,  wise  and  sparing, 

Outsoars  the  belting  wave, 
There  Coacbochee,  warlike,  wild  and  daring, 

From  his  bleak  western  grave. 


There,  the  Great  Spirit,  in  his  car  of  thunder, 

Salutes  thee  with  a  smile, 
"Live  on,  my  son !  "    The  clouds  are  rent  asunder 

About  the  funeral  pile. 


Dark  Withlacoochee  caught  the  magic  meaning, 

Triumphant  with  St.  John, 
And  bore  it  on,  with  every  ripple  gleaming, 

"Live  on !  Live  on !  Live  on !  " 

[148] 


AFTER  A  LITTLE  WHILE 

The  comeliest  damsels  of  thy  shadowy  nation 

Shall  sing  to  thee:  "Live  on! " 
Shout  echo,  million-tongued  o'er  the  nation, 

"Live  on !  Live  on !  Live  on ! " 

The  lyric  gales,  in  soft  melodious  motion, 
Thrill  the  harp-pines :  "Live  on !  " 

While  throbs  the  everlasting  dirge  of  ocean : 
"Live  on !  Live  on !  Live  on !  " 


AFTER  A  LITTLE  WHILE 


After  a  little  while, 
When  all  the  glories  of  the  night  and  day 

Have  fled  for  aye, 

From  Friendship's  glance  and  Beauty's  win 
some  smile, 

I  pass  away, 

After  a  little  while. 

[149] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  KYDER  RANDALL 

After  a  little  while, 
The  snow  will  fall  from  time  and  trial  shocks 

Down  these  dark  locks ; 
Then  gliding  onward  to  the  Golden  Isle, 

I  pass  the  rocks, 

After  a  little  whila 

After  a  little  while, 

Perchance,   when  youth  is  blazoned  on  my 
brow, 

As  Hope  is  now, 
I  fade  and  quiver  in  this  dim  defile, 

A  fruitless  bough, 

After  a  little  while. 

After  a  little  while, 
And  clouds  that  shimmer  on  the  robes  of  June 

And  vestal  moon, 
No  more  my  vagrant  fancies  can  beguile — 

I  slumber  soon, 

After  a  little  while. 

After  a  little  while, 
The  birds  will  serenade  in  bush  and  tree, 

But  not  for  me; 
On  billows  duskier  than  the  gloomy  Nile 

My  barque  must  be — 

After  a  little  while. 

[150] 


THE  PLACE  OF  REST 

After  a  little  while, 
The  cross  will  glisten  and  the  thistles  wave 

Above  my  grave, 

And  planets  smile; 

Sweet   Lord!   then   pillowed   on   Thy   gentle 
breast, 

I  fain  would  rest, 

After  a  little  while. 


THE  PLACE  OF  REST 

I  am  not  happy,  though  my  smiles  betoken 
The  jocund  fancies  which  I  do  not  feel ; 

I  am  not  happy,  all  my  hopes  are  broken 
Upon  the  world's  inexorable  wheel. 

Tis  said  the  dying  shed  no  useless  tears, 
And  so,  I  weep  not  for  the  vanished  years. 

I  weep  not  for  them,  though  they  flock  around  me 
In  solitude,  and  in  the  noontide  glare; 

I  weep  not  for  them,  though  fond  eyes  confound  me, 
With  midnight  havened  in  their  realmless  stare. 

With  jests  upon  my  lips  I  stand  aghast 
O'er  the  Dead  Angel  that  we  call  the  Past. 

[151] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

No  More !  O  terrible,  wild  word !  the  days 
That  have  been  shudder  in  the  iron  grave ; 

And  lo,  I  totter  on,  in  blind  amaze, 

'Mid  the  black  gulches  of  th'  o'erwhelming  wave: 

No  star-bright  seas,  no  Pharos-litten  shore, 

While  the  hoarse  Raven  croaks,  "No  More!  No 
More!" 

And  still  I  weep  not,  it  may  be,  alas ! 

That  I  am  hardened  into  more  than  stone — 
Ah,  happy  they  whose  hearts  like  brittle  glass, 

Break  ere  the  worst  of  bitterness  is  known. 
The  cold  remain,  the  gentle  pass  away, 

In  their  white  innocence — how  happy  they ! 

The  drums  are  clattering  in  the  crowded  streets, 
The  fife  and  bugle  warlike  concords  blend, 

The  roar  of  cannon  to  my  soul  repeats : 

Peace,  weary  one,  thy  pilgrimage  can  end — 

There's  rest  for  thee  upon  the  battle  field, 

With  Triumph  towering  in  thy  shattered  shields! 


[152] 


REFUGE  OF  SINNERS 


"REFUGE  OF  SINNERS  " 


Though  loathsome  sin,  usurping  grace, 
Should  make  my  soul  its  dwelling  place ; 
Though  Satan,  with  his  host  of  flame, 
Combined  to  crush  my  spirit's  fame; 
I'd  look  to  heav'n — avaunt  despair! 
Because  I  have  a  Mother  there. 

Though  man  should  couch  foul  slander's  dart 
To  pierce  with  death  my  wounded  heart; 
Though  trusted  friends,  nay,  all  that's  dear 
Should  flee  my  sight — without  a  tear, 
I'd  waft  on  high  an  earnest  prayer, 
Because  I  have  a  Mother  there. 

Though  the  poor  beggar's  staff  be  mine, 
And  all  despise,  I'll  not  repine ; 
Though  hunger  writes  upon  my  cheek 
Its  fatal  mark,  in  Winter's  bleak ; 
For  heaven's  sake  all  this  I'll  bear, 
Because  I  have  a  Mother  there. 

[153] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Though  God  should  call  to  Him  above, 

Snatching  away  mine  early  love; 

An  earthly  mother  wrap  away 

From  hence  to  realms  of  endless  day; 

I  would  not  bid  our  dear  Lord  spare, 

Because  I'd  have  two  Mothers  there. 


When  I  am  with  the  countless  dead, 
When  wild  weeds  riot  o'er  my  head, 
One  boon  I  ask,  one  favor  crave: 
Let  one  true  mourner  guard  my  grave, 
And  let  my  soul  seek  regions  fair, 
Because  it  has  a  Mother  there. 


[154] 


MOTHER  AND  SON 


MOTHER  AND  SON 


Thirty  years  ago  two  of  my  Catholic  friends,  fond  parents, 
were  called  upon  to  endure  a  grievous  tribulation  in  the 
death,  by  accidental  drowning,  of  a  noble  virtuous  son.  I 
promised  the  father  to  write  a  poem  on  this  sad  theme,  but, 
somehow,  in  the  distraction  of  active  secular  journalism  and 
the  need  of  practical  support  for  a  growing  family,  I  could 
not  accomplish  that  purpose.  A  few  days  ago,  with  more 
leisure  and  a  return  of  the  long-neglected  gift.  I  determined 
to  pay  the  debt,  and  as  some  hearts  may  be  comforted  by 
sympathetic  verse,  I  take  the  liberty  of  asking  The  Colum 
bian  to  reproduce  the  poem,  for  the  first  time : 

Tis  thirty  years,  my  son, 

Since  we  were  parted ; 
Thy  bright  course  swiftly  run — 

I,  broken  hearted, 
Hast  thou  been  gone  so  long 

To  realms  of  light, 
To  choirs  of  angel-song, 

To  visions  bright? 

[155] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

When  thou  wert  rapt  away 

By  the  stern  tide, 
I  taught  thee  how  to  pray — 

In  innocence  abide. 
So,  though  thy  call  was  brief, 

With  no  good-bye, 
I  know,  with  firm  belief, 

'Twas  well  to  die. 

Thy  piety  and  worth 

Were  all  secure; 
Yea,  from  thy  Christian  birth 

Thy  days  were  pure. 
And  so,  the  God  of  love 

Claimed  thee  His  own. 
Thy  spirit  winged  above 

To  seek  its  throne. 


Father  and  mother  both 

Gave  thee  to  bliss; 
Resigned,  however  loath, 

Thy  parting  kiss. 
We  learned  to  bless  the  hour 

Thy  soul  should  be 
Beyond  all  sinful  power 

And  grandly  free. 

[156] 


MOTHER  AND  SON 

Thy  father  saw  thee  first 

In  Christ's  abode; 
His  spirit  was  athirst 

For  Heaven's  road. 
Thy  mother  will  await 

The  last  decree 
That  opens  glory's  gate 

To  welcome  thee. 


To  meet  and  see  again 

Thy  sire  and  thee, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  pain, 

In  ecstacy. 
This  is  thy  mother's  prayer, 

And  this  her  goal. 
To  love  and  bless  thee  there, 

Soul  unto  soul. 


[157] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


THE  ONLY  BOY 


Though  heaven  has  gained  one  angel  more, 
My  heart,  dear  God,  is  wondrous  sore; 
For  that  bright  angel  Thou  hast  won 
Was  my  sweet  lamb,  my  only  son. 

How  shall  an  earthly  mother  bear 
Such  awful  anguish  and  despair? 
How  shall  she  live,  and  living,  know 
Such  depths  of  overwhelming  woe? 

Without  Thy  aid,  dear  God,  my  soul 
Is  shipwrecked  in  a  sea  of  dole. 
Without  Thy  rescuing  hand,  I  sink 
Beyond  the  world's  absymal  brink. 

He  was  my  pride,  my  hope,  my  joy — 
Ah,  bitterest  thought,  my  only  ~boy! 
And  now,  while  night-winds  madly  rave 
My  heart  is  buried  in  his  grave. 

[158] 


THE  ONLY  BOY 

Too  much  I  worshiped  him,  perchance 
Too  much  I  drifted  from  Thy  glance. 
Thou  art  a  jealous  God,  and  Thou 
Hast  put  Thy  crown  upon  my  brow. 

I  pass  beneath  Thy  rod;  I  pray 
To  find  salvation's  thorny  way— 
I  care  not  boy  what  pangs  beguiled, 
So  it  but  lead  me  to  my  child. 

Ah,  blessed  thought  to  know  that  he 
Is  safe  from  sin  and  misery; 
That,  in  the  young  May  of  his  life, 
He  fell  unsullied  in  the  strife. 

I  treasure  up  his  image  fair, 
I  kiss  his  tress  of  shining  hair, 
Thrilling  to  hope,  in  heaven,  that  he 
Will  be  "the  first  to  welcome  me." 

Within  Thy  sheltering  arms,  I  place 
My  idol,  glorified  by  grace ; 
And,  with  the  dear  ones  left,  my  eyes 
Gaze  through  the  gates  of  Paradise. 


[  159  ] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


LABOR  AND  PRAYER 


Despite  the  wisdom  of  the  Past, 

From  lips  prophetic  or  divine, 
Men  wander  in  this  world  aghast, 

And  ask  another  saving  sign. 
They  seek  cold  Science  in  her  cell, 

With  front  of  brass  and  feet  of  clay ; 
And  this  is  what  her  sibyls  tell : 

"The  man  who  labors  need  not  pray ! " 


Starving  upon  this  soulless  rind, 

The  pilgrim,  weary  with  his  strife, 
Cries  to  the  proud  poetic  mind : 

"Sing  to  us,  seer,  the  psalm  of  life ! " 
The  bard,  with  sensual  lore  endowed, 

Unclasps  his  dreamy  Book  of  Fate, 
And  answers :  "Let  the  famished  crowd 

First  learn  to  labor  and  to  wait ! " 

*  [  160  ] 


LABOR  AND  PRAYER 

With  spirit-hunger  humbler  grown, 

The  seeker  lifts  his  saddened  eyes 
To  Him  whose  everlasting  throne 

Fills  all  the  earth  and  all  the  skies; 
And  from  that  oracle  of  might, 

Healing  the  torment  of  the  rod, 
List  to  the  accents  of  delight: 

uThe  germ  of  action  glows  in  God !  " 

The  sum  of  all  is:    Seek  ye  first 

The  heavenly  kingdom  Christ  restored, 
Exclaiming,  with  supernal  thirst, 

"The  glory  Thine  alone,  O  Lord !  " 
Then  shall  descend  celestial  rest, 

Unknown  to  children  of  despair, 
The  consecration  of  the  Blest, 

In  labor,  patience,  faith  and  prayer! 

Labor,  to  do  the  best  we  may, 

In  patient  kinship  with  our  trust; 
Faith,  to  illume  the  coming  day 

That  wakes  the  tragic  trance  of  dust; 
Prayer,  to  deserve  the  Guiding  Hand, 

Without  whose  grasp  our  steps  are  vain- 
Lord  !  to  thy  other  Living  Land 

Link  us  with  that  electric  chain ! 

[161] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


IN  MEMORIAM 

Father  and  Lord!    We  know  full  well 
Thy  chastisements  are  for  the  best; 
And  while  the  loved  and  lost  are  blest, 

Our  hearts  throb  like  a  funeral  bell, 
Although  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

We  bow  to  Thy  decree,  we  bow 

To  that  dread  stroke  which  bore  away, 
To  regions  of  eternal  day, 

Our  darling  boy,  whose  starry  brow 
Beamed  like  a  golden  morn  of  May. 

And  yet,  dear  God,  how  hard  to  yield, 
Even  to  Thee,  that  precious  life — 
Bequeathed  to  glory  without  strife, 

Without  a  scar  or  battle-field — 

But  with  Love's  tenderest  virtues  rife. 

He  came  to  us  as  sunshine  falls 
Upon  a  sorrow-stricken  hearth. 
He  came  with  innocence  and  mirth; 

His  voice  made  music  in  our  halls — 
How  can  we  hide  him  in  the  earth? 

[162] 


IN  MEMORIAM 

Thou  who  wast  scourged  and  crucified 
For  fallen  man!  behold  to-night 
A  mother  smitten  in  Thy  sight. 

Behold  how  all  her  hopes  have  died! 
Send  her  Thy  comfort  and  Thy  light! 

Tell  her  that  when  the  cruel  wave 

Closed  o'er  her  child's  benignant  head, 
The  Lord  of  Life  in  mercy  sped, 

To  glorify  him  in  the  grave 

And  raise  an  angel  from  the  dead. 

Too  pure  to  combat  this  dark  globe, 
Too  gentle  for  the  madding  crowd, 
Better  thy  unpolluted  shroud, 

Thy  early  death,  thy  spotless  robe, 
Than  many  years  with  sadness  bowed. 

Ah !  we  who  loved  thee  so  will  keep 
Thy  memory  a  sacred  trust, 
A  sweet  evangel  from  the  dust, 

To  cheer  us  when  we  wail  and  weep, 
While  thou  art  dwelling  with  the  Just ! 


[163] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


Dedicated  to  MBS.  ALBERT  BALDWIN 


CUTHBERT  IN  HEAVEN 


Beautiful  mother 
Of  a  beautiful  boy, 
Life  is  Death's  brother. 
Weep  not  for  him 
Who  from  the  world  dim 
Rose  to  the  realm  of  perpetual  joy. 


Thank  God  for  giving, 
Thank  Him  for  taking. 
To  the  Land  of  the  Living 
Cuthbert  has  flown, 
By  the  White  Throne, 
Where  the  earth-sleepers  in  Heaven  are  waking. 

[  164  ] 


CUTHBERT  IN  HEAVEN 

No  mortal  bliss 
Can  match  his  above — 
You've  an  angel  to  kiss, 
When  you  aspire 
To  the  home  of  desire, 
Filled  with  an  infinite  Mercy  and  Love. 

Always  to  you 

He  will  be  glorious, 

"Tender  and  true." 

Out  of  great  sorrow 
Comes  a  bright  morrow, 
When  your  strong  soul  will  meet  him  victorious. 

He  went  before 

To  lead  you  aright— 

To  endure  and  adore: 
Free  from  all  stain, 
You  shall  meet  him  again, 
Crowned  and  caressed  in  kingdoms  of  light. 

Better  by  far 

To  know  he  is  blest, 

Like  a  radiant  star, 

Than  bruised  by  the  blow 
Of  the  world  in  its  woe — 
Better  God's  wonderful,  mystical  rest. 

[165] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  KYDEE  RANDALL 

Happy  is  he, 

Made  a  present  to  God, 

That  his  mother  might  see 

Her  way  to  the  skies. 

By  the  path  of  the  wise, 
Where  the  chosen  who  triumph  in  anguish  have  trod. 

Christ,  in  His  passion, 
Teaches  your  heart 
How  sadness  may  fashion, 
With  wonderful  grace, 
The  soul  for  its  place 
Where  mothers  and  children  have  never  to  part. 

Cling  to  the  Cross 

That  was  sent  you  to  save 
From  terrible  loss, 
Till  you  have  risen 
From  the  tomb's  prison, 
Welcomed  by  Christ  who  has  conquered  the  grave ! 


[166] 


SUNDAY  REVERY 


SUNDAY  REVERY 


Beyond  my  dingy  window  pane, 

This  beamy   Sunday   morn, 
I  watch  the  red-breast  on  the  vane 

And  the  ravens  robbing  corn; 
Hard  by,  the  Alabama  boils 

Its  sallow  flood  along, 
With  drift-wood  biers  and  forest  spoils 

A  melancholy  throng! 

The  rich  horizon  melts  away 

To  an  illumined  arch, 
With  summer  tresses  all  astray 

Upon  the  brows  of  March; 
The  birds,  inebriate  with  glees, 

Seem  happiest  when  they  sing, 
Thrilling  the  aromatic  trees 

With  symphonies  of  Spring. 

[  107  ] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

The  pulse  of  nature  throbs  anew 

Impassioned  of  the  sun; 
The  violet,  with  eyes  of  blue, 

Is  modest  as  a  nun. 
The  roses  reck  not  of  the  strife 

That  crashes  up  the  North; 
Alas!  the  mockery  of  life 

When  Death  is  striding  forth. 

An  alien  in  this  lonely  land, 

I  sound  an  alien  strain, 
Until  my  own  fair  State  shall  stand 

Inviolate  again; 
The  long-lost  Pleiad  of  our  sky 

Is  glimmering  still  afar, 
And  nations  yet  shall  see  on  high 

That  bright  and  blessed  star. 

The  church  bells  toll  their  solemn  chime, 

From  out  the  minster  eaves, 
Knelling  some  old  religious  rhyme, 

Half  stifled  by  the  leaves. 
A  thousand  miles  away,  I  hear 

Those  grand  Cathedral  notes, 
Which  made  my  youth  a  fairy  sphere 

With  cymbal-clashing  throats. 

[168] 


SUNDAY  REVERY 

Vibrating  to  each  sturdy  tone, 

My  soul  remembers  well 
The  mild  Madonna's  statue-stone 

Within  its  ivory  cell; 
The  ritual  read,  the  chanting  done— 

The  belfry  music  roll'd, 
And  all  my  faith,  like  Whittington, 

Was  in  the  tales  it  told ! 

And,  oh!  I  feel  as  men  must  feel 

Who  have  not  wept  for  years; 
Upon  my  cheek  behold  the  seal 

Of  consecrated  tears. 
A  mighty  Sabbath  calm  is  mine 

That  baffles  human  lore, 
A  resurrection  of  Lang  Syne 

A  guiltless  child  once  more. 

And  mother's  school-boy  with  his  mimes, 

This  beamy  Sunday  morn, 
Forgets  the  grim,  tumultuous  times 

That  hardened  him  in  scorn. 
Forgets  terrific  ocean  days 

Beyond  the  tropic  gates, 
Where  the  Magellan  clouds  down-gaze 

On   Patagonian   Straits. 

[169] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

He  nothing  heeds  the  long  despair 

Within  the   savage   swamp, 
The  jungle  and  the  thicket  where 

The  serpent  tribes  encamp; 
He  little  heeds  the  dream  of  Fame, 

Its  treason  or  its  trust, 
The  hope  of  a  sonorous  name — 

A  requiem  from  the  dust. 


But  oh,  he  heeds  Elysian  hours 

That  hint  of  Long  Ago! 
Those  dreamful  days  in  college  towers 

He  never  more  shall  know — 
The  home  he  never  more  may  see, 

A  Paradise  to  him — 
The  books  he  read  at  Mother's  knee 

When  her  dear  eyes  grew  dim ! 

O  Mother — Mother!  Tears  must  fleet 

Along  the  battle  track 
Ere  yet  thy  lonely  heart  can  greet 

Its  weary  wanderer  back — 
A  deathless  love  these  tears  bespeak, 

For  thy  devotion  shed, 
With  thy  pure  kisses  on  my  cheek, 

Thy  blessing  on  my  head ! 

[170] 


LA  FETE  DES  MORTS 


LA  FETE  DES  MORTS 

Peace  to  the  dead;  though  the  skies  are  chill, 
And  the  Norse  wind  waileth  coarse  and  shrill. 
Peace  to  the  dead!  though  the  living  shake 
The  globe,  with  their  brawling  battle-quake. 
Peace  to  the  dead !  though  peace  is  not 
In  the  regal  dome  or  the  pauper  cot. 
Peace  to  the  dead ;  there's  peace,  we  trust, 
With  the  pale  dreamers  in  the  dust. 

Roses  and  pansies  guard  them  well, 

Tinging  triumphant  immortelle, 

Minions  of  Doubt,  we  bend  the  knee 

To  the  kings  and  queens  of  mystery. 

Storm  and  sunshine,  mist  and  rain, 

Do  ye  mock  at  their  marble  doors  in  vain? 

And  ye,  sepulchral  cliffs  of  night, 

Do  ye  rise  to  appeal  their  shadowed  sight? 

O  Darkness !  thy  mission  is  not  just 

To  the  pale  dreamers  in  the  dust. 

[  171  ] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Peace  to  the  dead !  afar  and  near, 

In  folds  of  satin  or  beggar's  bier, 

Whether  they  sleep  in  the  kirk-yard  ground, 

Or  bleach  in  the  gullied  seas  profound ; 

Garnered  by  Time's  dull  scimitar, 

Or  cleft  in  the  scarlet  fields  of  war ; 

Godless  is  he  who  breaketh  the  crust 

Of  the  Past,  o'er  the  dreamers  in  the  dust. 

Peace  to  the  mother,  there  beguiled 
With  her  frozen  lily — her  deathless  child; 
Peace  to  the  father  and  his  mate, 
Peace  to  the  lowly  and  the  great, 
Peace  to  the  maidens  as  they  rest 
With  the  cross  on  the  cold  and  waxen  breast ; 
Peace  to  the  soldier,  blossom  and  bud, 
For  he  fell  with  the  sacrament  of  blood; 
Peace  to  the  dead!  there's  peace,  we  trust, 
With  the  pale  dreamers  in  the  dust. 

Father!  if  peace  is  not  with  them, 
Where  shall  we  seek  for  the  subtle  gem  ? 
'Tis  not  of  the  Earth,  for  we  lose  it  here, 
And  death  is  the  gate  of  the  golden  sphere. 
Father!  Thy  mercies  cannot  cease; 
Crush  us,  but  give  Thy  sleepers  peace. 
Smite  us,  Redeemer,  if  Thou  must, 
But  pardon  the  dreamers  in  the  dust ! 
New  Orleans,  Nov.  2, 1862. 

[172] 


NIGHT  AND  DAY 


NIGHT  AND  DAY 

Night  above  and   night  below— 
Into  the  night  you  saw  me  go, 
With  the  midnight  of  my  woe. 

Had  I  never  sought  your  side, 
You  had  never  stung  my  pride; 
Then  my  faith  had  never  died. 

I  was  made  to  think  you  dear — 
Madder  far  to  kiss  the  spear — 
Maddest,  that  I  lingered  here. 

Welcome  back,  good  pilgrim's  staff ! 
Truth  is  wind,  and  Love  is  chaff- 
Both  are  winnowed  by  a  laugh. 

Hola  ho;  I  will  depart 
Though  seditious  tear-drops  start- 
Though  each  foot-fall  stabs  my  heart ! 

Sink  or  swim  I'll  tempt  the  stream; 
In  your  eye's  repellant  beam 
Tombing  what  I  dared  to  dream. 

Day  above  and  day  below— 
Into  the  day  you'll  see  me  go, 
With  the  day-break  stars — heigho. 

[173] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 


LOST  AND  SAVED 


When  thou  wert  born  into  the  world, 

My  darling  little  child, 
A  robin  came  a  second  time 

And  piped  its  "wood-notes  wild." 
When  thou  wert  laid  away  to  rest, 

Beneath  the  churchyard  clay, 
A  robin  came  a  second  time 

To  sing  a  mournful  lay. 

Did  the  bird  come  to  solace  me 

With  message  from  the  skies, 
When  thou  wert  welcomed  to  the  earth 

And  then  to  Paradise? 
Was  it  thy  guardian  spirit,  love, 

That  met  me,  first  and  last, 
Across  the  sparkling  bridge  that  spans 

The  Future  and  the  Past? 

[174] 


LOST  AND  SAVED 

Dear  robin,  with  the  tender  heart, 

I  know  how  it  is  said 
Your  snowy  bosom  once  became 

A  holy  tint  of  red. 
'Twas   in  the  Saviour's  thorny  crown 

You  bruised  your  dainty  breast, 
And  unto  you  and  Him  I  come 

For  comfort  and  for  rest. 


Lord!  thou  hast  given  me  a  child 

And  taken  her  away! 
Behold  me  prostrate  in  the  dust, 

A  mourner  night  and  day. 
My  heart  is  empty  and  my  soul 

Rebellious  in  Thy  sight — 
Grant  me  the  boon  of  perfect  trust, 

And  lead  me  to  the  light. 

Teach  me  that  it  was  surely  best 
My  one  ewe  lamb  should  go 

Beyond  the  starry  gems  of  night 
And  wilderness  of  woe. 

Teach  me  that  on  some  radiant  shore, 
Beyond  th'  eternal  main, 

I  shall  behold  her  glorious  eyes, 
And   clasp  her  form  again! 

[175] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Lord!  I  am  in  the  Vale  of  Death! 

No  beacon  burns  within; 
Send  me  a  vision  of  my  child 

To  break  the  spell  of  sin. 
Bid  her  come  as  a  bird  and  say : 

"Mother,  look  up  and  see 
How  I  am  saved  for  endless  joy — 

Sweet  mother!  follow  me! 

"Had  I  remained  upon  the  earth, 

As  you  so  fiercely  prayed, 
There  would  have  come  a  dismal  fate 

To  grieve  your  little  maid. 
Sorrow  and  sickness  and  despair 

Would  toss  my  soul  about, 
Till  I  should  live  a  life  of  pain 

And  die  the  death  of  doubt. 

"Christ,  in  His  mercy  and  His  love, 

Has  spared  your  darling  this, 
Giving  instead  a  home  divine 

And  everlasting  bliss. 
Lo!  He  has  bid  me  fly  to  you, 

And  in  the  twilight  dim, 
Reveal  how  I  was  called  away 

To  lead  you  on  to  Him! 

[176] 


LOST  AND  SAVED 

"Mother!  the  faith  that  guides  to  God 

Will  bring  your  soul  to  me; 
There  is  no  other  certain  way 

Your  cherub  child  to  see. 
Close  not  your  ears  to  this  appeal 

That  calms  all  human  strife, 
Making  the  gloomy  grave  itself 

The  Golden  Gate  of  Life! 


"The  love  that  shall  not  lose  its  own 

Must  seek  celestial  fire — 
Must  light  its  torch  by  Heavenly  flame, 

And  not  the  Pagan  pyre. 
Mother!  dear  mother!  hear  your  child, 

And  let  her  win  you  where 
The  King  of  Glory  sits  enthroned 

With  'angels  bright  and  fair.' 

"And  when  the  hour  shall  come  for  you 

To  bid  the  world  farewell, 
I  shall  be  hovering  o'er  your  couch 

To  hear  the  dying  knell ; 
And  you  shall  see  me,  robed  in  white, 

With  the  red-breast  in  my  hand, 
Thrilling  to  guide  you  gently  on 

To  the  Eternal  Land !  " 

[177] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

My  child!  I  hear  thy  voice  and  heed — 

I  go  to  God  and  thee! 
Lead  thou  me  on  to  thy  abode 

Beyond  the  sapphire  sea! 
And  while  thy  little  body  sleeps 

Among  the  birds  and  flowers, 
I  know  thy  sinless  spirit  soars, 

In  happier  skies  than  ours! 


[178] 


RESURGAM 


RESURGAM 

Teach  me,  my  God,  to  bear  my  cross, 

As  thine  was  borne; 
Teach  me  to  make  of  every  loss 

A  crown  of  thorn. 
Give  me  Thy  patience  and  Thy  strength 

With  every  breath, 
Until  my  lingering  days  at  length 

Shall  welcome  death. 

Dear  Jesus,  I  believe  that  Thou 

Did'st  rise  again, 
Instill  the  spirit  in  me  now 

That  conquers  pain. 
Give  me  the  grace  to  cast  aside 

All   vain  desire, 
All  the  fierce  throbbing  of  a  pride 

That  flames  like  tire. 

[179] 


POEMS  OF  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

Give  me  the  calm  that  Dante  wrought 

From  sensual  din; 
The  peace  that  errant  Woolsey  sought 

From  stalwart  sin. 
I  seek  repose  upon  Thy  breast 

With  child-like  prayer; 
Oh  let  me  find  the  heavenly  rest 

And  mercy  there! 

If  I  have,  in  rebellious  ways, 

Profaned  my  Iffe; 
If  I  have  filled  my  daring  days 

With  worldly  strife; 
If  I  have  shunned  the  narrow  path 

In  crime  to  fall — 
Lead  me  from  th'  abode  of  wrath 

And  pardon  all ! 

Banished  from  Thee !  where  shall  I  find 

For  my  poor  soul 
A  safe  retreat  from  storms  that  blind, 

Or  seas  that  roll? 
Come  to  me,  Christ,  ere  I,  forlorn, 

Sink  'neath  the  wave, 
And  on  this  blessed  Easter  morn 

A  lost  one  save! 

[180] 


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